i J KONG Sr.i .KO'iloi 
 
 PUBUC READING 
 
 MARY EMILY REDINGTON 
 HERBERT CARLYLE LIBBY 
 
Book . \^£ 
 
STRONG SELECTIONS 
 
 FOR 
 
 PUBLIC READING 
 
 COMPUTED BY 
 
 MARY EMILY REDINGTON 
 
 M 
 
 (Graduate of the School of Expression, Boston. ) 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 HERBERT CARLYLE LIBBY 
 
 (Harvard 1904) 
 
 For the use of Students in Fitting Schools 
 and Colleges. 
 
 Waterville, Maine 
 
 Central Maine Publishing Co., Printers 
 
 1908 
 
*°' 
 
 
 Copyright 1908 
 By HERBERT CARLYr^E LIBBY 
 
 1 
 
PREFACE 
 
 ' I ^HOSE who have had to do with the publishing of this vol- 
 -*• ume believe they have performed an acceptable service for 
 those students in our high schools, academies and colleges, who 
 are interested in the art of public speaking, by arranging in con- 
 venient form for their use, some of the best public readings ob- 
 tainable. They would take this opportunity of pointing out the 
 fact that had they been denied the use of the material which 
 was granted them through the courtesy of authors and publish- 
 ers, the compilation of this volume would have been impossible. 
 For these courtesies they wish to express their heartfelt thanks, 
 and at the same time to record their grateful appreciation of the 
 good wishes extended them by the several authors and publish- 
 ers. Their debt of gratitude to Professor Mathews, already 
 large, is greatly increased by his introductory contribution. 
 
INTRODUCTION, 
 
 THE recognition of public reading as a legitimate art is not 
 yet complete, but is none the less growing. The day has 
 passed when extravagant gesture and emphasis and vio- 
 lently tragic literature can be regarded as indispensible for those 
 who would attempt to interpret literature before audiences of 
 any culture. Naturalness has come to be regarded as the chief 
 charm of a reader, and even dialect must be kept well subordi- 
 nated to more important literary elements. In such a revolution 
 as these facts imply there has naturally arisen a need of selec- 
 tions for reading that are possessed of real literary worth. 
 These, however, can hardly be out of keeping with the rapidly 
 changing literary tastes of the country at large. Poetry has 
 yielded largely to the short story, and highly wrought literary 
 products have disappeared before the literalism of various 
 schools of realism and the daily newspaper. The public reader 
 is thus in somewhat desperate need. On the one hand is the de- 
 mand for something possessed of dramatic power, and on the 
 other, a public that demands simplicity and human interests. 
 Where can the reader find material to satisfy both demands? 
 
 It seems as if this volume of selections meets the require- 
 ments both of the reader and of the listener. The range of 
 choice is wide, the authors are thoroughly representative of re- 
 cent literature, and selection has been made by one who knows 
 by actual experience the requirements of the situation. It is 
 seldom one sees an equally representative collection of excerpts 
 from current American literature. It is to be hoped that the 
 book will find immediate and hearty welcome from the members 
 of a steadily advancing profession. Its general use would also 
 do much to remedy the mechanical and often unwilling work so 
 often found in the public reading courses in our schools and 
 
 colleges. 
 
 SHAILER MATHEWS. 
 The University of Chicago. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 The Great College-Circus Fight 
 
 How the Storm Came 
 
 A Man of Putty . 
 
 "The Little Fellow" 
 
 The Commodore . 
 
 The Black Douglas 
 
 Tekla's Lilies . . 
 
 The Sorrows of War 
 
 The Mascot of Battery B. 
 
 Christmas Eve at the Gulch 
 
 The Little Minister 
 
 A Lost Sensation . 
 
 The Identification of ''Bronco 
 
 Jim" 
 
 Pheidippides 
 
 The Doctor's Daughter . . 
 Fenwick Major's Little 'Un 
 Red-Head's Story of the Feud 
 When Independence Was the 
 
 Stake 
 
 Captain January .... 
 The One Thing Needful . . 
 * 'Green Grow tha Rushes 0! " 
 The Finish of Patsy Barnes . 
 'Thrush" 
 
 Jesse Lynch Williamfi 
 Anonymous . . . 
 Charles Battell Loomis 
 Annie L. Hannah 
 Justine Ingersoll . 
 S. R. Crockett 
 Anonymous . . . 
 Associated Press . 
 Lloyd Osbourne 
 Albert Bigelow Paine 
 J. M Barrie . . 
 P. Y. Black . . . 
 
 George Ade . . . 
 Robert Browning . 
 Sophie May . . . 
 S. R. Crockett . . 
 John Uri Lloyd 
 
 Adelle E. Thompson 
 Laura E. Richards 
 Charles Dickens . 
 William Edward Penney 
 Paul Laurence Dunbar 
 Anonymous .... 
 
 Page 
 
 . 3 
 
 . 11 
 
 . 15 
 
 . 23 
 
 . 29 
 
 . 35 
 
 . 41 
 
 . 47 
 
 . 51 
 
 . 57 
 
 . 63 
 
 . 71 
 
 . 77 
 
 . 83 
 
 . 89 
 
 . 95 
 
 . 101 
 
 . 107 
 
 . 113 
 
 . 119 
 
 . 125 
 
 . 131 
 
 . 137 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Elaine Alfred 
 
 Hugh Wynne S. Weir Mitchell . 
 
 Deepwater Politics .... May McHenry . . 
 
 In the Matter of the Mission . Bayard Veiller 
 
 Betty Charlotte Sedgwick 
 
 Hypatia Charles Kingsley . 
 
 Lucile Owen Meredith 
 
 At a Broadway Fire .... Alfred Trumhle 
 
 His Mother's Sermon . . . Ian MaClaren . . 
 
 The Old Garden Mary Clarke Huntington 
 
 Laddie Anonymous . . . 
 
 The Man Without a Country . Edward Everett Hale 
 
 Westward Ho Charles Kingsley . 
 
 Peter Patrick Sally Pratt McLean Green . 225 
 
 Paul and Virginia B, De Saint Pierre . . . 233 
 
 The Boogah Man Paul Laurence Dunbar . . 239 
 
 Glengarry School Days (II) . Ralph Connor .... 243 
 
 Barabbas Marie Corelli .... 251 
 
 Glengarry School Days (III) . Balph Connor .... 257 
 
 Vive I'Empereur Mary Bay mond Andrews 265 
 
 Queen of Sheba Edith Tatum .... 273 
 
 The Heart of Eric .... Elmore Elliott Peake . . 279 
 
 The Trembling Brave . . . Lucia Chamberlain . . 298 
 
 The Bishop's Candlesticks . Victor Hugo 301 
 
 The First Quarrel .... Alfred Tennyson . . . 309 
 
 Glengarry School Days (I) . Balph Connor .... 315 
 
 Wallace Forever Jane Pointer 323 
 
 Other Good Selections 327 
 
 143 
 149 
 157 
 163 
 171 
 179 
 185 
 191 
 197 
 203 
 207 
 213 
 219 
 
The Great College-Circus Fight, 
 
 By J. I.. WII.I.IAMS. 
 
 With the permission of The Saturday Evening Post. 
 
 (2) 
 
The Great College-Circus Fight 
 
 WHEN it was known that a circus was coming to visit the 
 town where a large university is situated, the president 
 and faculty feared lest there might be another serious 
 affray such as had happened the year before, between the circus 
 men and the college boys; and they felt that they must do all in 
 their power to prevent it. Jack Stehman, the foot-ball captain, 
 was sure to be a ringleader in the affair, and to him the presi- 
 dent determined to make a personal appeal. 
 
 ' ' Mr. Stehman, ' ' he began, ' ' I'm afraid I shall have to trouble 
 you to help me in this affair. I mean that you have more con- 
 trol over this body of men than I have. I mean that I can for- 
 bid their making trouble, but you can prevent them from mak- 
 ing it. Among those coming to this town to-morrow are some 
 of the wildest types our country produces. They will certainly 
 carry arms; there will be a riot, bloodshed, perhaps death. 
 Think what it means to all of us. Think what it means to the 
 fair name of the university. Mr. Stehman, this body of men 
 will do just about as you direct them. How are you going to 
 direct them?" And the president hurried away abruptly. 
 
 ' ' Well, ' ' thought the big foot-ball player, ' ' I never knew be- 
 fore how white that man was. The faculty don't talk that way 
 to me as a rule, ' ' and he smiled a little at certain grim recollec- 
 tions of faculty meetings. 
 
 Now, unfortunately, the boys had laid all their plans, and 
 Stehman felt that it was too late to withdraw honorably; but 
 for the final completion of their plans a meeting had been called 
 for that day at noon, and Stehman resolved to go, and to do all 
 in his power to prevent what the boys had made up their minds 
 to do. 
 
 When the hour arrived, all the boys were present, and many 
 were the eloquent speeches made. Only one man, a very quiet 
 and studious fellow, spoke against it. Then gt^hman arose, 
 
4 THE GREAT COLLEGE-CIRCUS FIGHT. 
 
 **Now, fellows," cried a shrill, enthusiastic voice, "let's have 
 three good rousing cheers for Captain Stehman. Are you ready? 
 Hip! hip!" The cheers made the windows rattle. Stehman 
 looked about the room. 
 
 ** You won't cheer me when you hear what I have got to say. 
 I started the rumpus last year, and now I wish — I wish I hadn't. 
 I wish I had minded my own business." He paused and wiped 
 his brow, then went on: "If you fellows make trouble to- 
 morrow, you will be doing the worst thing that could happen to 
 the college. I am heartily opposed to passing this resolution." 
 There was deep silence now. Then Stehman said so emphatical- 
 ly that no one could misunderstand: "I am going to do all in 
 my power to prevent what you fellows seem to have made up 
 your minds to." He hit the desk a blow. It was like thunder 
 out of blue sky. He did not know how to make a speech, and 
 the horrible stillness in the room was making him feel sick. 
 Then he burst out : 
 
 "You fellows are acting like a lot of kids; you're hot-headed; 
 you're rattled; you make me tired." 
 
 Now in order to make hot-headed kids do as you want them to, 
 you should tell them anything but that they are kids and hot- 
 headed. A loud, sneering voice now came from the far comer: 
 " Coward!" was what it said. It was the first hostile tone di- 
 rected towards Stehman, and it paralyzed him. He looked 
 about the room confusedly, and then sat down, defeated. 
 
 Then Ignance Holland got up. He had always been jealous of 
 Stehman 's popularity, and now he saw a chance to get up in the 
 estimation of the college world by stepping on his rival's head. 
 
 "Mr. Chairman and Gentlemen:" he began in his well-modu- 
 lated voice, "It is our duty to wipe out the disgrace of last 
 year and prevent its being repeated— prevent our Alma Mater 
 from being plunged into deeper disgrace. Last year Reddy 
 Armstrong was almost killed by a cruel blow on the head at the 
 hands of a half-civilized Mexican. Is it or is it not our duty to 
 avenge him? Let those who will, skulk at home; but let all who 
 are true sons of their glorious Alma Mater come forth and 
 avenge the honor of our college. Mr. Chairman, I call for the 
 resolution. ' ' 
 
 The Chairman jumped up. ' * All in favor—. ' ' And then came 
 a thunderous " Aye. ". "Contrary minded?" "No!" shouted 
 
THE GREAT COLLEGE-CIRCUS FIGHT. 5 
 
 Stehman. There were not twenty voices that joined with him, 
 and these were feeble. The meeting was adjourned. 
 
 The day of the exhibition of Cherokee Charlie's Grand Combi- 
 nation of Stupendous Western Wonders and Mexican Cow Boys 
 dawned bright and clear. It was a delightful, innocent-looking 
 morning, and soon after chapel groups of more or less studious 
 students began to gather on the main street. There were con- 
 cealed lumps under their coats. Suddenly some one shouted: 
 "Here they come: here they come: Ah!" The calliope had 
 started up, and now the procession turned the comer. At the 
 head of the cavalcade, in western costume, rode Cherokee 
 Charlie. His small eyes glittered when he saw the students. 
 He knew what to expect, and during the past week he had 
 given careful instructions to his men; in fact, there had been 
 daily rehearsals which had nothing to do with the regular per- 
 formance. 
 
 Now the students began walking along the street beside the 
 procession. The parade moved along for a while in silence, —an 
 ominous silence, considering that a solid stream of students was 
 stretching out along the street, parallel with the parade. 
 
 "All right now, fellows," whispered Holland. "Spread the 
 word down the line. ' ' The calliope had stopped. ' 'Now, then, 
 all together," shouted Holland. Out of several hundred coat 
 pockets came an assortment of the products of market-garden- 
 ing and the poultry business. The next instant they began 
 whizzing through the air at Cherokee Charlie's Grand Combi- 
 nation. The students were carefully strung out along the whole 
 line, so that— except for the four-in-hand in the lead, on which 
 sat the "Coterie of Western Beauties," the whole cast of per- 
 formers was receiving attention at once. 
 
 But this was merely a prelude. Holland's strong voice began 
 again: "Now's the time, fellows. At 'em! rush 'em! rush 
 'em!" With loud yells the whole line of collegians suddenly 
 turned out upon the street and charged in upon the cavalcade, 
 shouting and hooting vigorously. They pulled bridles, threw 
 the remainder of the ammunition in the showmen's faces, 
 slapped the horses' heads, pulled the cow boys' stirrups, and 
 tried to upset the smaller wagons. 
 
 Now Cherokee Charlie and his lieutenants had in their day 
 ridden against worse things than college students. "Ride 
 
b THE GREAT COLLEGE-CIRCUS FIGHT. 
 
 through the crowd," said Cherokee Charlie in a matter-of-fact 
 way, and they pulled hard on the bit, turned their horses' heads, 
 dug in their spurs, and began charging the students. The latter, 
 being on foot, were obliged to fall back. ''All right," shouted 
 Cherokee Charlie, **I guess we'll go on with the parade now. 
 
 But at this moment, Holland shouted: "Do 'em up, fellows, 
 do 'em up!" He picked up a sizable stone from the street and 
 let drive at Cherokee Charlie. Others, being excited, followed 
 Holland's example. Stones began flying. Some of them hit 
 the horses. Cherokee Charlie rushed over to the college side 
 of the street, whipped out his revolver, and in the apparently 
 careless manner of the old-fashioned westerner— fired. Whether 
 purposely or not, he fired high, but the report thrilled like 
 murder. Meanwhile the cowboys were gathering in close rank, 
 and two or three more shots had gone echoing down the street. 
 But just then another noise was heard— the sudden scuffle of 
 horses' feet and the clatter of wheels. It was the four-in-hand, 
 carrying the coterie of western beauties, and here it came 
 straight down the street, gaining speed every second. The eyes 
 of the horses showed plainly what was the matter; they had 
 taken it into their heads to run away. 
 
 The crowd was scattering right and left. The western 
 beauties were screaming. The coach was swaying from side to 
 side; the women were clinging together. Every one was think- 
 ing about the next corner. There the horses would probably 
 try to turn, the tents being in that direction. This meant that 
 the top-heavy vehicle would go over; lamp-posts, pavements and 
 cobble-stones would do the rest. Everybody was now crowding 
 into the street again to see what would happen. 
 
 This is what happened. Just before the galloping horses came 
 even with the lower campus gate, out from the driveway shot a 
 long, strong runner, scudding over the ground with remarkable 
 speed. It was Jack Stehman. That was just the way he ran 
 on the foot-ball field. Every one took in the situation. He was 
 going to make a tackle far more difficult than the one which 
 saved the game last fall. "But if the leaders should veer off as 
 he jumps" thought every one. And now he was making one of 
 his famous dives through the air. His feet had already left the 
 ground when the leaders, suddenly seeing him, veered off to the 
 other side. It was just as all had feared, but just as Stehman 
 
THE GREAT COLLEGE-CIRCUS FIGHT. 7 
 
 had counted upon. The captain's sure, strong arms met about 
 the neck of the horse— and every one gasped. "He's got 'em, 
 he's got 'em!" shrieked some one. "He's stopping them: down 
 they go: Lord!" 
 
 The coach slacked so suddenly that the rear wheels lifted up, 
 came down with a bang and stopped. But Stehman did not 
 spring up. The whole university came crowding down the street 
 toward him, 
 
 "Stand back; give him air— give him air, I tell you. Will you 
 fellows keep the crowd back? He's all right now. You're all 
 right now, aren't you. Jack?" The captain opened his eyes. 
 "Yep" he said, then closed them again as they carried him to 
 the drug store. 
 
 "He's all right, fellows, he's all right," cried some authorita- 
 tive voice coming out of the drug store. Jack, within, opened 
 his eyes, blinked, and asked faintly: "What are they cheering 
 for?" "You" said Reddy Armstrong, joyfully. "That was the 
 nerviest stunt ever done in this college." 
 
How the Storm Came, 
 
How the Storm Came, 
 
 SHALL I tell you how the storm came? 
 Just a whisper, nothing more. 
 But the sultry, silent heat, 
 Which all day along the street 
 Had lain like death, 
 Was broken by a breath 
 Of sweet salt freshness from the shore. 
 And the dusty leaves 
 Of the old gray poplar, sere and dry, 
 Just stirred in the breeze; 
 
 And we said, " 'Twill bring the boat in by and by. " 
 But Granny said, " 'Twill bring a gale, or signs fail!' 
 
 Shall I tell you how the storm came? 
 
 Sudden ! Strong ! 
 Like a panther on its prey ! 
 And adown the bay 
 The black cloud grew and spread: 
 In the lurid light and red. 
 The lilies all the garden path along 
 Gleamed strangely pale and white— 
 White like ghosts just a moment and were gone, 
 Snatched away by the black night 
 Which dropped from the black sky 
 And shut us in. 
 Alone with the roar 
 Of the breakers on the shore. 
 And the din 
 
 Of the angry screaming north wind rushing by. 
 But we said, * 'The boat is new, 
 It will ride the tempest through, ' ' 
 And we feared to look each other in the eye. 
 
 Shall I tell you how the storm came? 
 In rush of angry rain, 
 
12 HOW THE STORM CAME. 
 
 Which beat upon the pane, 
 
 In wind which shook the window, screaming shrill; 
 
 Then, a silence! — awful! — still! 
 
 When we heard our own hearts beat 
 
 As we huddled close together on the floor. 
 
 And listened down the street 
 
 For the step which never came; 
 
 Then the thunder of the tempest broke once more, 
 
 And we started at each crash. 
 
 And we shuddered at each shock. 
 
 And every ghostly knock. 
 
 And Minnie fell asleep with the tears upon her cheek, 
 
 And I held my mother's hand. 
 
 And I heard her pray. 
 
 Whispering o'er and o'er the self-same prayer alway: 
 
 *'God! bring my boy, my darling, safe to land!" 
 
 Shall I tell you how the night passed? 
 The long, long hours and slow. 
 Brought no ray of moon or star. 
 
 From afar 
 Came nothing but the wailing of the blast, 
 And the gale's voice, wild and high. 
 
 Seemed to cry: 
 "Lost! Lost! Lost!" and then die 
 In a sob which made the very life-blood chill; 
 And I heard my mother moan. 
 
 Rocking to and fro, 
 **Will it never, never go? 
 Will the day-light never come. 
 And bring my darling home? 
 Oh! God! it is hard to do nothing and sit still." 
 When, sudden in the roar. 
 Wide open flew the door, 
 And I gave a shriek. 
 For in the flickering glare 
 
 He was there! 
 And his laugh, clear as note 
 In the blackbird's velvet throat. 
 And we felt the salt sea-spray 
 
 On his dear, brown cheek ! 
 
A Man of Putty. 
 
 By CHARIvES BATTBI.I. IvOOMIS. 
 
 With the permission of The Saturday Evening Post. With the permission 
 
 of Henry Holt & Co., Publishers of "Cheerful Amercans." With 
 
 the special permission of Charles Battell lyOOMis. 
 
A Man of Putty. 
 
 SOME two weeks ago I left my office in New York and took 
 the train for the place in the country where my family are 
 summering. My family consists of my wife, Mrs. Docey, 
 Miss Irene Docey and Miss Annie Docey. Hitched near the depot 
 I found a horse and wagon awaiting me. I climbed into the Con- 
 cord wagon and had driven a mile on my way when I saw ahead 
 of me a well-put-up man of about thirty years of age. He was 
 good looking and had acquired that ease of manner that comes 
 to those who are accustomed to have their own way in all 
 things. I have no such ease of manner, alas the day. 
 
 The pedestrian stopped and waited for me to come abreast of 
 him. Now it happened that just before I met him my horse had 
 gone lame, and I was of two minds as to whether or no I ought 
 to get out and walk to relieve the beast of some of his burden. 
 When I saw the man stop I knew that I must refuse him a ride, 
 and I went over in my mind various ways of couching my re- 
 fusal. As I came up to the stranger he turned and said: 
 
 * 'How do. Summer Resident? You're just in time. I was be- 
 ginning to think the cars never ran on this road. ' ' 
 
 Before I could tell him of my horse's lameness he had jumped 
 into the wagon. 
 
 **I'm sorry—" I began. 
 
 "Sorry?" said he. * 'Sorry for anything on a day like this 
 when earth and air and sky are uniting in a trio whose harmony 
 is ravishingly sweet? This is no day to be sorry, Summer Resi- 
 dent. What sin is it that makes you sorry?" 
 
 My dignity was offended, but I can never make a man under- 
 stand when my dignity has received a stab. He always seems 
 to think it cause for laughter. So I plopped the words out 
 quick : ' 'My horse has gone lame and I was going to get out at 
 the beginning of this hill. " 
 
 "Oh, that's what you were sorry for? Now, my dear Mister 
 
16 A MAN OF PUTTY. 
 
 Man, you simply must not treat me as company. Take your 
 little constitutional up the hill and I will drive slowly, and 
 when we have reached the level you must get in again." 
 
 He stopped— and I actually got out. Well, it was as much on 
 account of the horse as anything. 'Tm getting out," said I, 
 with just a vestige of dignity, "because I think the horse has 
 too heavy a load." 
 
 ''The act does you credit," said the stranger with an approv- 
 ing smile. ''Now that you speak of it I believe that the horse 
 is limping and I guess it is because he has a stone in his foot. 
 You just lift his forefoot and see. ' ' 
 
 Now I hate to touch a horse, having been bom and brought up 
 in the city, but there was something in this man that compelled 
 me to lay aside fear, and I lifted the horse's foot, and, sure 
 enough, there lay a stone firmly embedded. I got the stone out, 
 but not before the horse had stepped on me and given me a pain- 
 ful bruise that brought the tears to my eyes. 
 
 "What, crying a day like this?" said my Young Man of the 
 Sea. "What's personal pain, man, to the thought that you 
 have relieved the horse? Now climb in and we will make the 
 old fellow show his metal. ' ' 
 
 I got into that carriage feeling that the stranger was actually 
 kind to allow me the privilege. I read him for what he was 
 then and nothing that has happened since has made me change 
 my opinion. He was a masterful man and I am not. I marked 
 him for a man who, if shipwrecked on an uninhabited island in 
 the South Pacific, would be king of that island in six months. 
 
 I sat down, he applied the whip, and the horse leaped forward 
 at a pace I had never suspected was within his ability. 
 
 "Why, this is no plug," said he. "When I saw you coming I 
 said he was a plug. Pardon my freedom, but you supplied the 
 plug quality. A horse is not so much what his component parts 
 are, as he is what gets to him through the reins. The reins are 
 telegraph wires and you, the driver, send messages to the 
 horse. You say, 'Old-horse- You-are-lame-and-not-strong-Take 
 your-Time- Answer. ' And 'Old Horse' answers by drooping his 
 head and ambling. / step into the telegraph office and I say, 
 'ikfjZ-horse-Git-up-and-git- No-answer-required- No-back-talk- of- 
 any-kind. ' And he goes. ' ' 
 
 "I dare say you are right," said I, amused in spite of myself. 
 
A MAN OF PUTTY. 17 
 
 "When do you dine, noon or night?" asked he, looking at his 
 watch. 
 
 *'We dine at night," said I, wondering what was coming next. 
 
 'That's good. This day and this drive have given me the 
 appetite of a god. I dined at the hotel in the town back there 
 but I wouldn't know it. Going to have any company to-night?" 
 
 "No, not any," said I unsuspectingly. 
 
 ' 'Wrong, ' ' said he, bursting out into a laugh so hearty and in- 
 fectious that I laughed with him. * 'Wrong, for I am going to 
 dine with you. ' ' 
 
 ' 'Well, really, you seem to have no trouble in asking for what 
 you want," said I, and that was all I could say. 
 
 " Why, no/' said he; "of course I have no trouble asking for 
 what I want. As I take it, we are put into the world and are 
 given to understand that we are entitled to as much of the 
 world as we can get. I began life as a poor boy in the country. 
 My parents died when I was ten and I was cast on the world 
 knowing how to read, v/ith the multiplication table mine, with a 
 good natural fist and plenty of good humor that would stand 
 strains. I could read, write and cipher and couldn't get angry, 
 and the rest was easy. I can read a little better now and have 
 read a good deal; I can write my name to a check for $50,000, 
 which shows that I understand addition pretty well, and I have 
 two hundred pounds of good nature as against the sixty I had 
 when a boy of ten. So there you are. Not that you'll count 
 you worthy such a guest, but that my presence dignifies your 
 feast, to paraphrase somebody— blest if I know who. Is this 
 where we get out?" 
 
 I may not be believed, but by this time I should have been 
 sorry to see the man go on his way. He interested me. I 
 recognized in Mr. Tolmach a man who was not hidebound by 
 conventions, and I thought that an hour or two of him would be 
 in the nature of entertainment for us all, so I legalized his self- 
 invitation by seconding it graciously. 
 
 He was the life of the feast when we all assembled in the 
 dining-room. He had indeed been everywhere and he had 
 brought something away from every place. He knew the point 
 of view appropriate to each place he had visited in this and the 
 old country, and I was sincerely glad that I had picked him up. 
 Just about the time that I supposed he was going to rise and 
 
 (3) 
 
18 A MAN OF PUTTY. 
 
 take his departure he suggested that we take a walk, and as 
 Anna did not care to make one of the party Mrs. Docey and I 
 walked side by side, and he and Irene walked ahead. I said to 
 Mrs. Docey, ''When is this man going?" and was surprised to 
 have her reply, "I don't care if he never goes. I like him. 
 Irene likes him, too, and that is more to the point. If I can read 
 character at all he is fundamentally a nice man and a manly 
 man, and he is very fond of Irene. It is a case of love at first 
 sight with him." 
 
 'Then the sooner he is out of sight the better, " said I. 
 
 We had now come to a wood road, and I took the opportunity 
 to draw Mr. Tolmach aside. ''I don't want to seem rude," said 
 I, "but the last train from Barkinton leaves at 8.20. If you are 
 thinking of going to—" 
 
 **I gave up that thought just about the time the roast was 
 served. I will admit that I forced myself upon you in the road 
 and I have no intention of forcing myself still further, but if 
 you cannot accommodate me for the night perhaps you can tell 
 me of some farmer who does not object to a boarder — " 
 
 Mrs. Docey came forward at this juncture and said: 
 
 "If Mr. Tolmach cares to accept—" 
 
 There was no help for it now if Mrs. Docey had come to his 
 aid, so I interrupted and said: 
 
 "Why-er-yes, we'd be-er-pleased to have you stay overnight. 
 There's a train that connects with one for the West in the mom- 
 irig." 
 
 "It's very kind of you," said Mr. Tolmach, speaking to me 
 but looking at Irene. 
 
 Mrs. Docey slept peacefully that night, but I did not. I 
 wished that I had whipped up or ever I had seen the odious Mr. 
 Tolmach. At breakfast every time I looked at either Irene or 
 Mr. Tolmach I felt a twinge of pain. After breakfast Irene ap- 
 peared at the door and said: 
 
 "Mr. Tolmach, if you really want to see the old-fashioned 
 garden I'll take you there." 
 
 Again that twinge, but I did not stop them, although I knew 
 that an old-fashioned garden is one of the best places in the 
 world for love-making. I tried to interest myself with a current 
 magazine, but my eyes saw nothing but the picture in the 
 garden: the tall and graceful Irene and the type of American 
 
A MAN OF PUTTY. 19 
 
 resolution at her side. A half -hour later Mr, Tolmach entered. 
 
 "Well, this is another of those days Browning talks about, 
 isn't it?" said he. 
 
 I told him tartly that I didn't know that Browning talked 
 about any days; that I didn't pretend to follow Browning, but 
 that there was too much east wind to suit me. 
 
 He took no notice of my ill nature but seated himself in an 
 easy chair and reached over for a cigar. I smoked feverishly; 
 he as calmly as a stage detective. I looked out of the window 
 at the hills twenty miles away. Oh, if he would only go over 
 those hills and vanish in the illimitable purple ! 
 
 He looked at me full in the face and said: "Well, there's no 
 use of mincing words or of wasting 'em. I'm hard hit. If any 
 one had told me last night that the little man in the Concord 
 wagon drawn by a limping horse was going to carry me to where 
 they would make a target of my heart I should have refused to 
 get in, for I supposed that I was a confirmed bachelor and 
 gloried in the supposition. But I felt like imposing myself on 
 you because I picked you out for an easy mark, and here I am, 
 and I want to tell you that your daughter satisfies all my ideas 
 of what a woman should be. Now I expect you to say no be- 
 cause you don't know whether I was born yesterday or have 
 been a criminal in five or six previous existences, but I'm going 
 to give you time to verify me. I'm going to let you call up the 
 Governor of this State who happens to be my brother-in-law, 
 and if you are not satisfied with his recommendation I can con- 
 nect you with solid business men. If you are convinced that I am 
 what I say I am, a successful man of business who is just enter- 
 ing on his first bit of romance, I'll take to-morrow's train for 
 Columbus and I'll arrange my business so that I can leave it 
 indefinitely and then I'll come back here and make a father-in- 
 law of you in ten minutes by the clock. I have asked your 
 daughter and she is willing to abide by your decision even if it 
 is adverse. She also said something about waiting. But there 
 won't be any need of waiting, and I know what your decision 
 will be just as I knew yesterday that you would bring me home 
 to dinner. This is all I have to say, and now if you'll give me 
 the telephone book I'll show you what number to call up." 
 
 I weigh one hundred and ten pounds and he weighs at least 
 two hundred. If I had taken him and flung him he would not 
 
20 A MAN OF PUTTY. 
 
 have gone far. He would have come back; so I determined to 
 submit gracefully. He showed me the telephone number of the 
 Governor of Connecticut, and I called him up. I told him who I 
 was and he gave the following replies to my questions : 
 
 ''Know Mr. Tolmach— Jack Tolmach? Of course I do. He's 
 my brother-in-law — my wife's brother. Good as wheat. Fine 
 as silk. Why?" 
 
 "He wants to marry my daughter. " 
 
 I heard laughter. "Well, I can recommend Jack. He's self- 
 made and he's always had his own way, but he gains his will 
 gracefully. ' ' 
 
 ' 'Oh, yes, I know that. Well, then, you would advise me to 
 let them get married?" 
 
 "Why, of course that rests with you, but Jack is all right. 
 He's a good boy and will make a good son. " I caught the ring 
 of immoderate laughter and then I was cut off. 
 
 I felt that to refuse my sanction after Mr. Tolmach had re- 
 ceived this clean bill of health would be churlish, a thing that I 
 always try to avoid; so I called Mr. Tolmach in. He came, his 
 countenance radiant. He looked at Irene and her face kindled 
 as the evening star kindles after the glance of the sun. I de- 
 termined to give her away with dignity. I went over to her and 
 kissed her. Then I kissed her mother. Then I shook hands 
 with Tolmach and said, with just a touch of a quaver in my 
 voice: 
 
 "Go to Columbus and prepare for another vacation." 
 
The "Little Fellow." 
 
 By ANNIE L. HANNAH. 
 
 Reprinted from Sabbath Reading. 
 
The "Little Fellow." 
 
 JACK and his grandfather Hved on the embankment above the 
 railroad, a good many miles from anywhere. Jack was 
 little and young and lame. But how Jack loved that rail- 
 road! Then the trains! He knew to the minute at what hour 
 each was to be expected and from which direction; and he had a 
 bowing and smiling acquaintance with all the engineers and fire- 
 men, who had come to call him the "Little Fellow. " 
 
 But it was the young physician, who lived in the nearest vil- 
 lage, some ten miles away, who was Jack's greatest and most 
 precious friend. He was big and strong, and yet so gentle and 
 tender that Jack looked up to him and worshipped him with all 
 the strength of his loving little heart. 
 
 It was this kind friend who had pointed out the splendid con- 
 stellations, telling how the same great God had made them and 
 the little boy; and how that little boy had been put into the 
 world for some great and good purpose. Once during one of the 
 drives which they often took, the doctor told Jack a wonderful 
 secret, and showed him a picture of a most beautiful young lady. 
 She had great tender eyes which looked into Jack's with such a 
 loving glance that the little fellow suddenly bent his head and 
 pressed his lips to the sweet pictured face. At that the young 
 doctor laughed, a low little laugh, and, holding the boy close and 
 firm with his strong arm, he told him that he was going away 
 for a few weeks, but that when he came back the beautiful lady 
 would be with him. 
 
 One day, a week later, a farmer, coming from the post-office, 
 dropped into Jack's hands a letter! the very first which had ever 
 come to him. And such a beautiful letter as it was ! It ended 
 by saying: 
 
 "And now, my little man, in ten days or so we shall be at 
 home, and then I will bring my dear wife to see you. Till then, 
 goodbye. Always your loving friend, 
 
 Gerald Haywood. ' ' 
 
24 THE "LITTLE FELLOW." 
 
 Happy little Jack ! He begged his grandfather for the calen- 
 dar and began checking off the days: ten, nine, eight, seven, 
 six, five, four, three, two. Only two more sunsets to watch; 
 only twice more to see the Great Dipper swinging across the 
 sky. 
 
 It was the evening of the eighth day that Jack sat watching 
 the sun sinking behind a low range of hills. The sun dropped 
 away out of sight, and one by one the stars came out. Across 
 the moors came the sweet call of a whippoorwill, and drawn by 
 it. Jack struck out toward the sound. 
 
 But when under the great arching sky, he flung himself down 
 upon his back beside a little thicket, and lay tracing out some of 
 his beloved constellations. Deeper and darker grew the blue 
 sky. The soft night breezes came sighing across the moors, 
 fanning with their gentle breath the sleeping child sheltered be- 
 neath the tall fronds of the feathery ferns. Finally the little 
 child turned, then opened his eyes and lay quiet, listening to the 
 sound of voices close behind him. 
 
 Where was he? Who was that talking? But before he had 
 time to rise, or even to move, some words fell upon his ears 
 which froze the blood in his veins and held him spell-bound. He 
 never afterward could tell exactly what they were; he only knew 
 that from what the two men said, he understood that a great 
 stone had been, or was to be rolled upon the track just beyond a 
 curve a mile away; that in the confusion following the wreck 
 they, the men, were to rob the express cars and as many of the 
 passengers as possible. 
 
 Before he could collect his scattered senses the men had 
 passed on, just avoiding stepping on him as they went, and he 
 was left with every nerve in his little body tingling and throb- 
 bing with anguished excitement. What should he do? How 
 was he to prevent this dreadful thing ! 
 
 He glanced up at the stars, his clock by night. When the 
 last star in the Scorpion's tail touched the top of Gray-cap 
 Mountain the night express would pass, and once passed, there 
 would be no salvation from destruction. What was to be done? 
 Only one thing. Only one single thing! He must take the 
 lantern and go down and stand on the track and wave it to stop 
 the train before the curve was reached. 
 
 Suppose that they should not see him in time! Suppose that 
 
THE ''LITTLE FELLOW." 25 
 
 the great, dreadful, rushing thing should come crashing down 
 upon him, grinding him to pieces! Never to see his beloved 
 friend again ! Never once to look into the living eyes which he 
 had loved in the picture ! No! no! no! He could not do it! But 
 he must! He shuddered; then hobbled quickly on across the 
 space between the thicket and the cottage into the house. With 
 hands still shaking he took down the lantern, lighted it, then 
 went quickly away. 
 
 There was a low thunder in the distance. Jack lifted his 
 ashen face to the skies, and his lips moved; then he swung him- 
 self out into the track, and with the lantern hung on the head of 
 the crutch, waved it to and fro, blinded by fear. On, on, on 
 came the great glowing eye! Had they seen him? Was she 
 slowing down? He could not tell; everything was growing dark! 
 Was he going to fall? Poor little Jack ! Poor little cowardly 
 Jack! 
 
 "Why, if it ain't the 'Little Fellow'! Dead swooned away, 
 too! Nothing the matter here! Jack and Dan, you run on 
 down to the curve and take a look. He ain't one to play shines 
 like this for naught. And some of you fellows make haste and 
 see if there is a doctor aboard, and fetch him here!" 
 
 In an instant everything was wild confusion. A doctor who 
 had answered to the call, came and kneeled beside the little 
 prostrate form. 
 
 "Jack!" he cried. "Little Jack!" 
 
 The men who had been sent around the curve returned upon a 
 hand-car, with white, scared faces. A great rock had been 
 found upon the track, and the flagman bound and gagged, lying 
 in his house. The train, with no one could tell how many lives, 
 had been saved by the little crippled lad lying there so still and 
 white before them. 
 
 When Jack's eyes opened, it was to look straight up into the 
 eyes which he had seen only in the picture. But Jack knew 
 them in a moment and said, almost in a whisper, "My Doctor's 
 beautiful lady!" He did not know but that for him, the 
 "Doctor's beautiful lady," nay, the Doctor himself, might have 
 been lying cold and dead. But presently, when the young man, 
 taking him into his own arms, whispered it to him, with his 
 cheek resting on Jack's soft curls, then the boy raised his head. 
 
26 THE * 'LITTLE FELLOW." 
 
 "Maybe," he said in a glad little whisper, "maybe it was for 
 that He put me here. Oh, I hope it was for that!" 
 
 ' 'Perhaps; He knows, ' ' the young Doctor made answer. ' Tor 
 that, and for other good, and brave, and beautiful acts, my 
 precious little man!" 
 
 "I'm glad!" said Jack, with a fluttering little sigh. "So 
 glad!" 
 
The Commodore. 
 
 By JUSTINE INGERSOLL. 
 
 with the permission of the Atlantic Monthly. With the special per, 
 mission of Justine Ingersoll. 
 
The Commodore, 
 
 I REMEMBER him as well as though I had seen him yester- 
 day — my grandfather, the Commodore. His ship, the 
 Grampus, was a full-rigged man-of-war. She lay at anchor 
 off the Navy Yard, over which the Commodore was in command. 
 
 Wherever the Commodore went he carried an old black clasp- 
 knife and a piece of pine wood; and as he whittled he hummed in 
 a monotonous voice, which seemed to start somewhere under his 
 cap and come down through his nose, **The Girl I Left Behind 
 Me. " This was his favorite tune. 
 
 Mrs. Catherine Cull had been my mother's nurse, and now 
 was mine and my baby sister's, who was just two months to a 
 day when something occurred, and she came very near never 
 being a day older. Nurse Cull, as was her custom, had left the 
 little creature, sound asleep under the mosquito-netting of her 
 bassinet. The afternoon was hot and drowsy. Nurse Cull, I 
 fancy, must have dropped off herself, in the next room, for she 
 asserted, on the honor of an honest woman, that she heard no 
 sound from the nursery, but that, at five o'clock, when she put 
 down her sewing to take the baby up, she found the cradle 
 empty. Then there was a hue and cry, not only up the street, 
 but down the street. The man in the sentry-box, the marines 
 on dress parade, the men in the brass band, everybody in the 
 Yard, — men, women and children — turned out in the hunt. My 
 poor mother grew wild-eyed and wan as she went here, there, 
 and everywhere, to return to the empty cradle. Her white face 
 must have scared even my grandfather, when he came home 
 from a long afternoon down the bay. 
 
 ''What is it, Polly, my girl?" he said. My mother could only 
 wail out, ''My baby, — oh, my baby!" 
 
 I did not tell you, I think, that on land the Commodore was 
 one of the most absent-minded of men. But at sea no one ever 
 caught him napping. A sudden rush of recollection at the sight 
 of my mother sent the blood from his face, until it was as white 
 
30 THE COMMODORE. 
 
 as her own. He jerked the time-piece from his fob pocket. It 
 lacked fifteen minutes to the sunset gun. 
 
 We all thought he had gone stark, staring mad when he ran 
 down the stairs, three at a time, and out at the door, no hat on 
 his head, his hair streaming, and tore down the road like one 
 possessed. The men in the ship's boat which had fetched him 
 ashore were well on their way back, but his whistle, loud and 
 shrill, brought them to with a vengeance, and in a jiffy he had 
 leaped into the stern sheets and was commanding the men to 
 pull as they had never pulled before. 
 
 "A twenty-dollar gold piece to every Jack Tar of you, if you 
 get me within speaking distance of the ship before i/iai"— shak- 
 ing his fist in the face of the great dog-day sun which was fast 
 sliding into the water — ''goes down!" 
 
 His voice, ringing out like a trumpet, was the only sound ex- 
 cept that of the oars in the rowlocks. No one, not even my 
 mother, knew exactly what terrible thing was impending, but 
 every one surmised that it must have something to do with the 
 missing baby. 
 
 Under the sharp, strong strokes of the sailors the boat slid 
 over the glassy sea as fast as a fish could swim. The Commo- 
 dore's eyes glared at the great red ball rolling down toward the 
 water's edge as though he would fix it stock-still in the sky. 
 
 We on the dock could see the gunner come on the ship's deck, 
 his figure standing out black and grim against the crimson west. 
 Nurse Cull caught the glass, which my mother had no strength 
 to hold, and, looking through it, saw that the gunner carried his 
 iron rammer, bag of powder, and wad of cotton. 
 
 The sun grew redder and bigger as it neared the heaving 
 water-line. There was not the length of an oar between sea 
 and sun when we could see my grandfather spring to his feet in 
 the boat and roar something at the men who were pulling for 
 dear life. The tone was so terrible that we could hear it even on 
 shore. The sailors bent their backs till their noses were 
 flattened on their knees and the ribbons on their caps stood out 
 straight behind. And then, with a pull that lifted the boat 
 clean out of the water, with a tremendous spurt they brought it 
 well up to the ship's side. Again did the Commodore thunder 
 out something in that awful tone, this time to the man that was 
 
THE COMMODORE. 31 
 
 about to ram the charge into the black mouth of the cannon, so 
 that he let everything fall upon the deck. 
 
 The great red disk of the sun was now drawing itself under 
 the waves. But before it had quite disappeared my grandfather 
 had cleared the bulwarks of the Grampus and snatched from the 
 black mouth of the gun a something long and white and flutter- 
 ing, — something which at a distance looked like a bolster-case, 
 but which caused my poor mother to faint dead away. 
 
 A great crowd had gathered on the dock by this time, and oh, 
 what a shout they sent up! "The baby! the baby! the baby 
 is saved! Hurrah for the baby! With a three times three and 
 a tiger for the baby!" 
 
 This brought my mother to, and I remember how she laughed 
 and cried and kissed me, and how all the women had their 
 handkerchiefs out, and the men, too. Then across the water 
 came the great boom of the sunset gun, —for the first time in its 
 history just one minute after the sun had dipped below the 
 horizon. This was the signal for the sky to unfurl itself like a 
 rose, and, blown by some invisible wind, to disperse in little 
 clouds, which floated rosy and pink in the golden twilight. So 
 that, in my childish fancy, I thought the good angels were scat- 
 tering rose leaves upon the boat which was bringing my little 
 sister back to us. 
 
 She lay in my grandfather's arms, with her long white dress 
 floating out in the breeze, and his cheek pressed against hers. 
 Then, as the boat came dancing over the waves, the marine band 
 struck up the Commodore's favorite tune. The Girl I Left Be- 
 hind Me, and to its spirited measures, he landed his precious 
 cargo. 
 
Selection from "The Black Douglas." 
 
 By S. R. CROCKETT. 
 
 Copyrighted by Doubleday, Page & Co., Publishers. With the special 
 permission of S. R. Crockett. 
 
 (4) 
 
Selection from ^^The Black Douglas." 
 
 THE morning had broken when the door of the prison-house 
 was opened, and a seneschal appeared. He saluted the 
 brothers, and in a shaking voice summoned them to come 
 forth. 
 
 When they rose to follow the seneschal, Earl William put his 
 hand affectionately on his young brother's shoulder and kept it 
 there. In this wise they came into the great hall. Upon the 
 dais sat Crichton the Chancellor and Sir Alexander Livingston. 
 Behind were crowded all the hangers-on of a court. But of 
 men of dignity and place only the Marshal de Retz, ambassador 
 of the King of France, was present. 
 
 The Douglases stood silent, haughtily awaiting the first words 
 of accusation. It was the Chancellor who spoke first, in his 
 high rasping creak. 
 
 "William, Earl of Douglas, and you David, called the Master 
 of Douglas," he began, ''you are summoned hither by the 
 King's authority to answer for many crimes of treason against 
 his royal person and above all for swearing allegiance to another 
 monarch, even to the King of France. And now. Earl Douglas, 
 what answer have you to these things?" 
 
 The Earl laughed a little mocking laugh. "I plead nothing," 
 said he. * 'I do not even tell you that you lie. But I do ask you. 
 Marshal de Retz, as a brave soldier and the representative of an 
 honorable King, what you have done with the Lady Sybilla? ' ' 
 
 The Marshal de Retz smiled. ''May I, in return, ask my Lord 
 Earl of Douglas and Duke of Touraine what is that to him?" he 
 said. 
 
 "It matters to me more than life, and almost as much as 
 honour. The Lady Sybilla did me the grace to tell me that she 
 loved me. And I in turn am bound to her in life and death. ' ' 
 
 "Listen," the Marshal said, "hear this, my Lord of Touraine: 
 the Lady Sybilla intended nothing else than your deception and 
 destruction. She it was that advised you to come hither that we 
 
36 SELECTION FROM "THE BLACK DOUGLAS." 
 
 might hold you in our hands. For her sake you obeyed. What 
 think you of the Lady Sybilla now?" 
 
 William of Douglas with one sudden bound was over the 
 barrier and upon the dais. Almost his blade was at the Mar- 
 shal's throat, and but for the crossed partisans of two guards, 
 he had died there and then by the dagger of William Douglas. 
 As it was, a score of men-at-arms approached from behind, and 
 forced the young man back to his place. 
 
 "Bring in the Lady Sybilla," said the Marshal. 
 
 They opened the door at the back of the dais and through it 
 there entered the Lady Sybilla. Instantly the eyes of William 
 Douglas fixed themselves upon her, but she did not raise hers 
 nor look at him. An angel of light coming through the open 
 door of heaven could not have appeared more innocent and pure. 
 
 "Sybilla," hissed de Retz, "is it not true that ever since you 
 met the Earl of Douglas you have deceived him and sought his 
 doom? You led him on with love on your lips and hate in your 
 heart. You kissed him with the Judas kiss. You led his soul 
 captive to death by the drawing of your eyes?" 
 
 In a voice that could hardly be heard the girl replied: 
 
 "/ did these things! I am accursed!' ' 
 
 ' 'You hear, William of Douglas, ' ' said the .Ambassador, ' 'you 
 hear what your true love says!" 
 
 Then it was that, with the calm air and steady voice of a 
 great gentleman, William Douglas answered, ' 'I hear, but I do 
 not believe." 
 
 Then, while all watched eagerly, the Marshal rose from his 
 seat to his full height. 
 
 "Girl — look at me!" he cried. 
 
 But Sybilla was looking at the Earl, and her eyes were great 
 and grey and vague. 
 
 "Listen, my true Lord, and then hate me if you will," she 
 said: "Listen, William of Douglas. Never before have I found 
 in all the world one man true to the core. I did not believe that 
 such an one lived. Hear this and then turn from me in loathing: 
 
 For the sake of this man's life, to whom, by the powers of 
 hell, my soul is bound, I came at the bidding of the King of 
 France and of this man, to compass the destruction of the Earl 
 of Douglas. It is true that at Castle Thrieve I deceived you, 
 knowing well that which would happen, and for the sake of the 
 
SELECTION FROM ''THE BLACK DOUGLAS." 37 
 
 evil wrought by your fathers, I was glad. But afterwards at 
 Crichton, when I told you that I loved you, I did not lie. I did 
 love you then. And by God's grace I do love you now — yea, be- 
 fore all men I declare it. Once for a season of glorious forget- 
 ting, all too brief, I was yours to love, now I am yours to hate 
 and to despise. I tried to save you, but though you had my 
 warning you would not go back or forget me. Now it is too 
 late!" 
 
 "My lady, " William Douglas answered her, gently, "be not 
 grieved for a little thing that is past. That you love me truly is 
 enough. I have not lived long, but for your sake I can die as 
 well as any! That you have loved me was my crown of life. 
 Now it remains but to pay a little price soon paid, for a joy ex- 
 ceeding great. ' ' 
 
 But the Chancellor had had enough of this. He rose and said: 
 
 "William of Douglas, you and your brother are condemned to 
 instant death as enemies of the King and his ministers. 
 Soldiers^ do your duty. Lead them forth to the block!" 
 
 The girl suddenly threw herself across the platform and fell 
 into her lover's arms. 
 
 "William, once I would have betrayed you," she said, "but 
 now I love you. I will die with you — or by the great God I will 
 live to avenge you!" 
 
 "Hush, sweetheart," said William Douglas, touching her brow 
 gently with his lips. "Fear not for me! Death is swift and 
 easy. I expected nothing else. That you love me is enough! 
 Dear love, fare thee well!" 
 
 But the girl heard him not. She had fainted. 
 
 It was a scene dreary beyond all power of words to tell it, 
 when into the courtyard of the Castle of Edinburgh they 
 brought the two noble young men forth to die. 
 
 The young Lords of Douglas came out looking brave and hand- 
 some as bridegrooms on a day of betrothing. 
 
 High above upon a balcony appeared the Chancellor and the 
 tutor. The Marshal de Retz it was, who, with a fiendish smile, 
 conducted the Lady Sybilla to see the end. But it was a good 
 end to see, and nobler far than most lives that are lived to four- 
 score years. 
 
38 SELECTION FROM "THE BLACK DOUGLAS." 
 
 The brothers embraced as they came to the block, kneeled 
 down, and said a short prayer like Christians of a good house. 
 The executioner motioned first to David. An attendant brought 
 him the heading cup of wine. 
 
 * 'Drink it not," said Earl William, "lest they say it was 
 drugged. ' ' 
 
 And David Douglas bowed his head upon the block, being only 
 in the fifteenth year of his age. 
 
 "Farewell, brother," he said, "be not long after me. It is a 
 darksome road to travel so young. " 
 
 "Fear not, Davie lad," said William Douglas, tenderly, "I 
 will overtake you ere you be through the first gate. ' ' 
 
 He turned a little aside that he might not see his brother die, 
 and even as he did so he saw the Lady Sybilla lean upon the 
 balcony paler than the dead. 
 
 Then when it came to his turn they offered the Earl William 
 also the heading cup. . 
 
 He lifted the cup high in his right hand with a knightly and 
 courtly gesture. Looking towards the balcony whereon stood 
 the Lady Sybilla, he bowed to her. 
 
 "I drink to you, my lady and my love," he cried. 
 
 Then, touching but the rim of the goblet with his lips, he 
 poured out the red wine upon the ground. 
 
 And then passed the gallantest gentleman and truest lover in 
 whom God ever put heart of grace to live courteously and die 
 greatly, keeping his faith in his lady even against herself, and 
 holding death sweet because that in death she loved him. 
 
Teckla's Lilies, 
 
 Reprinted from The GosrEL Banner. 
 
Teckla's Lilies. 
 
 IN the words of Mrs. Perry to herself, "It all came of her 
 being taken with a cleaning fit." She had gotten one 
 corner of the floor nicely wetted when her eye fell upon the 
 dresser. 
 
 * 'While I'm at it, I've more'n half a mind to clean out that 
 dresser, ' ' said she, and she began to drag forth the contents of 
 the box. '*As sure as life," she went on, ''Maud Ellen, if here 
 ain't your onion flowers!" 
 
 "My!" cried Maud Ellen, "I 'most forgot 'em, an' what would 
 Teckla have thought?" 
 
 "Maud Ellen, how you talk!" cried Mrs. Perryto. "Seein' as 
 Teckla's dead, how'd she be a'thinkin' anything?" 
 
 But Maud Ellen went on: "I remember what Teckla said jus' 
 as well as if 'twas yesterday." Said she, 'Maud Ellen, I won't 
 be here to go to Holy Innercents another Easter, an'^I'm going 
 to give you my lilies, an' I want you to go an' take 'em next 
 year fur me. Count up a six weeks afore Easter, ' said she, 'an' 
 put 'em in water, and set 'em on the window-sill.' "When is 
 Easter, Mumsey Perryto?" 
 
 That lady eyed her little daughter reflectively, then she said, 
 "Pin your little shawl over your head an' run across to Mis' Tip- 
 ping's, Maud Ellen. She'll know about Easter, seein' ez she 
 allers gets the eggs ready weeks aforehand for the bakery 
 winder." 
 
 So Maud Ellen handed the baby over to her mother and ran 
 over to Mrs. Tipping 's bakery. That lady made out that Easter 
 would be "six weeks from come next Sunday." Which point 
 being settled, Maud Ellen went home and summoned an audience 
 of play-fellows. 
 
 "Now," said she, "yer all on yer remembers Teckla?" "Yer 
 all on yer remembers how last Easter her father had to carry 
 h^r to Holy Innercents, 'cause she couldn't walk. Well, Teckla 
 tol' me all about it. The doors come open suddent-like, she 
 
42 TECKLA'S LILIES. 
 
 said, an' in they marched, children and children. A-carrying' 
 flags, she said, an' flowers, an' singin' an' marchin'. An' all 
 bein' mostly in white, 'twas like angels, which Teckla says is 
 the finest an' most stylishest thing children can be. An' a man 
 who was a-standin' there among them flowers, all white, even 
 his dress, he put his hands on her head an' he says, says he, 
 'God's blessin' on yer, my child,' an' Teckla said with that 
 blessin' on yer, yer can go straight ter heaven; an' seein' as this 
 Easter she'd be there, we was to take her lilies an' get the 
 blessin' an' come on up there. Now all on yer as is goin' hold 
 up yer hands!" 
 
 Every grimy hand in the company, from that of Perkins 
 Perryto, Junior, the youngest, to Katia Chapinski's, the eldest, 
 went up, amid a noisy acclaim of voices. 
 
 From the moment of planting the lilies grew, and one after 
 another sent up a slender green blade into the sunlight. 
 
 ''But we've got to sing when we march," said Maud Ellen one 
 day. "She said there was music, too," added Maud Ellen to 
 herself, quite softly, stroking a green blade with a tender hand. 
 
 Herr Hoff meister blinked his red little eyes and cried ' 'Herein, ' ' 
 as a knock came at the door of his room under the tenement 
 roof, and Maud Ellen entered. 
 
 "You r'emember Teckla," she began, confidentially, raising 
 her soft eyes to the old man's bleary ones. Herr Hoffmeister 
 nodded, and his face softened. Yes, yes, he remembered 
 Teckla, who had loved the music of his violin so well — the little 
 Teckla who had died in the dreary little room next to the old 
 musician's. 
 
 "Ya, ya; but what for you ask me of Teckla?" the old man 
 answered. 
 
 Maud Ellen pressed close against his knee. "I can do the 
 flower part, 'cause Teckla tol' me how. But won't you help do 
 the singin' part, Mr. Hoffmeister, an' the fiddlin'?" 
 
 And later, when the old musician went down the rickety steps 
 he held Maud Ellen's hand in his, and as he left her at her 
 mother's door, he said: 
 
 "Und you haf the children on hand, mein liebchen; und it shall 
 be like singing of the leedle vuns in der faderland ven I vas 
 young. It shall be Luther's grand old hymn I vill teach them, 
 the same as I sang it ven I vas von leedle child. " * 
 
TECKLA'S LILIES. . 43 
 
 Maud Ellen did her best, and daily marshalled her forces, with 
 such of their interested parents as had nothing else to do, and as 
 the green blades of the lilies divided into long slender leaves, 
 the tenement advanced in its musical education. 
 
 "Take yer places," Maud Ellen would command, "just's if 
 'twas Easter an' this yere street wus Holy Innercents. Now, 
 Mr. Hoffmeister, play. Gladiola, if yer ain't a-goin' ter see ter 
 them twins yerself they shan't march. Go on now; I'm a-goin' 
 ter march ter that hole in the street and back. Arthur Garfield 
 Perryto, sure's yer tie that tin can ter Mike I'll tell Mumsey. 
 Now— no, wait till that fishman gets by. Now, Mr. Hoffmeister, 
 we're ready. All on yer sing!" And they did sing ! 
 
 On Easter morning at the Church of the Holy Innocents the 
 music from the great organ rose and swelled amid the vast arches 
 as if struggling to carry its meed of praise straight to heaven. 
 As the doors of the church were swept open, it rose to a glorious 
 swell that shook the church, then died to a throbbing undertone. 
 And now came the sound of far-off voices singing, that grew 
 and rose and neared, until through every door, up every aisle 
 came processions of children. 
 
 "Jesus Christ is risen today, Allelulia!" 
 they sang, while their garlands filled the air with heavy perfume. 
 Up, down, in, out, around the great church, marched the white- 
 robed children. "Allelulia!" they sang. They laid their fra- 
 grant burdens down. "Allelulia, Amen!" and again the organ 
 swell died into silence, and the service began. 
 
 But as from amid the palms a white-haired man arose and 
 stretched out his hands above the congregation to pray, a single 
 one of the heavy doors swung open, and music, the sweet clear- 
 ness from a single violin pierced the silence, and, turning, the 
 people saw an old man standing in the open door and playing. 
 And again they heard the sound of many voices singing. A 
 second procession passed in. 
 
 Maud Ellen led— in an old white curtain dress. Her eyes were 
 like stars above her pink cheeks, and in her arms was a pot of 
 Easter lilies. To the memory of Teckla she carried it; and the 
 old musician played— playing as he had not played in years, his 
 eyes closed in rapture. Behind Maud Ellen marched the children 
 of the tenement. One of Teckla's fragrant lily blooms was in 
 each eager hand. Unmindful of rags or of congregation, with 
 
44 teckla's lilies. 
 
 their eyes on the soaring lilies their leader carried — how they 
 sang! It was Luther's grand hymn that fell from their lips, and 
 as they sang, the wondering congregation of Holy Innocents sat 
 still and listened. 
 
 Up the long aisle they went, and standing on the steps amid 
 the palms, gazing into the kindly face of the white-robed man, 
 they finished their song. And then Maud Ellen, smiling up into 
 his face, held out her pot of lilies. Why should she be afraid — 
 was not everything just as Teckla told her it would be? So she 
 smiled. 
 
 ''We've come to get a blessing', please," she said simply, and 
 looked up. 
 
 And the old clergyman, he whose life had been spent in trying 
 to get into the lives and hearts of just such little ones as these, 
 understood, and stretched out his hands. He put them on the 
 rough little head of Maud Ellen. ''The blessing of God Al- 
 mighty, the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be amongst 
 you and remain with you always — his children! Amen!" 
 
The Sorrows of War. 
 
 with the permission of the Associated Press. 
 
The Sorrows of War. 
 
 THREE hundred yards to the rear of the little township of 
 Modder River, just as the sun was sinking in a blaze 
 of African splendor, on the evening of Tuesday, the 12th 
 of December, a long, shallow grave lay exposed in the breast of 
 the veldt. To the westward the broad river, fringed with trees, 
 ran murmuringly; to the eastward the heights, still held by the 
 enemy, scowled menacingly; north and south the veldt undulated 
 peacefully. A few paces to the northward of that grave fifty 
 dead Highlanders lay, dressed as they had fallen on the field of 
 battle; they had followed their chief to the field and they were 
 to follow him to the grave. 
 
 The plaids dear to every Highland clan were represented 
 there, and as I looked, out of the distance came the sound of 
 the pipes; it was the general coming to join his men. There, 
 right under the eyes of the enemy, moved with slow and solemn 
 tread, all that remained of the Highland brigade. In front of 
 them walked the chaplain with bared head, dressed in his robes 
 of ofiice; then came the pipers, sixteen in all, and behind them, 
 with arms reversed, moved the Highlanders, dressed in all the 
 regalia of their regiments, and in the midst the dead general, 
 borne by four of his comrades. 
 
 Out swelled the pipes to the strains of ' 'The Flowers of the 
 Forest," now ringing proud and high until the soldiers' heads 
 went back in haughty defiance and eyes flashed through tears 
 like sunlight on steel; now sinking to a moaning wail like a 
 woman mourning for her first born, until the proud heads 
 dropped forward till they rested on heaving chests, and tears 
 rolled down the wan and scarred faces and the choking sobs 
 broke through the solemn rhythm of the march of death. Right 
 up to the grave they marched, then broke away in companies, 
 until the general lay in the shallow grave. Only the dead man's 
 son and a small remnant of his officers stood with the chaplain 
 and the pipers while the solemn service of the church was 
 spoken. 
 
48 THE SORROWS OF WAR. 
 
 Then once again the pipes pealed out, and "Lochabernomore" 
 cut through the stillness like a cry of pain, until one could al- 
 most hear the widow in her Highland home moaning for the 
 soldier she would welcome back no more. Then, as if touched 
 by the magic of one thought the soldiers turned their tear-damp 
 eyes from the still form in the shallow grave toward the heights 
 where Cronje, the "Lion of Africa," and his soldiers stood. 
 Then every cheek flushed crimson, and the strong jaws set like 
 steel and the veins on the hands that clasped the rifle handles 
 swelled almost to bursting with the fervor of the grip, and that 
 look from those silent, armed men spoke more eloquently than 
 ever spoke the tongues of orators. For, on each frowning face, 
 the spirit of vengeance sat, and each sparkling eye asked silent- 
 ly for blood. 
 
 God help the Boers when next the Highland pibroch sounds. 
 God rest the Boers' souls when the Highland bayonets charge, 
 for neither death, nor hell, nor things above, nor things below, 
 will hold the Scots back from their blood feud. 
 
 At the head of the grave at the point nearest the enemy the 
 general was laid to sleep, his officers grouped around him, while 
 in line behind him his soldiers were laid in a double row, wrapped 
 in their blankets. No shots were fired over the dead men, rest- 
 ing so peacefully, only the salute was given, and then the men 
 marched campward as the darkness of an African night rolled 
 over the far-stretching breadth of the veldt. 
 
 To the gentle woman who bears their general's name the 
 Highland brigade send their deepest sympathy. To the mothers 
 and the wives, the sisters and the sweethearts in cottage home 
 by hillside and glen they send their love and good wishes— sad 
 will their Christmas be; sadder the New Year. Yet, enshrined 
 in every womanly heart from Queen Empress to cottage girl let 
 their memory lie, the memory of the men of the Highland bri- 
 gade who died at Magersfontein. 
 
The Mascot of Battery B. 
 
 Bv LLOYD OSBOURNB. 
 
 with the permission of The Saturday Eveni>-g Post. With the special 
 permission of lyLOYD Osbourxe. 
 
 (5) 
 
The Mascot of Battery B, 
 
 BATTERY A had a mascot goat and Battery D a parrot, but 
 I guess we were the only battery in the brigade that 
 carried an old lady! Filipino, nothing! But white as 
 yourself and from Oakland, California, and I don't suppose I'd 
 be here talking to you now if it hadn't been for her. 
 
 Benny was her son, you know, the only son she had, and 
 Benny and I were chums, but nobody knows what that word 
 means till you've kept warm under the same blanket and kneeled 
 side by side in the firing-line. I was so common and uneddi- 
 cated that I wonder what Benny ever saw to like in me, for he 
 was a regular mamma's boy and splendidly brought up. 
 
 One day while we were lying in a trench and firing for all we 
 were worth, I suddenly saw that look in his face that a soldier 
 gets to know so well. 
 
 "Benny, you're shot!" I yelled out. 
 
 ''Shot, nothing!" he answered, and then he keeled over in the 
 dirt. Then as I leaned over him, he whispered, "Good-by, Bill, 
 I guess you'll have to rustle for another chum!" 
 
 Them was his last words and he said them with a kind of a 
 smile. 
 
 Iwas sitting down to write to Benny's mother when I looked 
 up, and what in thunder do you suppose I saw? The old lady 
 herself — powerful, grim and commanding. She walked straight 
 up to where I was and said: "William, William!" like that. 
 
 I guess the hospital must have appeared kind of cheerless, for 
 lots of the wounded were lying on the bare ground, and it was a 
 caution the way some of them groaned and groaned. 
 
 "And it was in a place like this that my boy died?" 
 
 "There's the very cot, ma'am," I said. 
 
 She said something like, "Oh, oh, oh," under her breath. 
 Then, rolling up her sleeves, "William," she said, "those boys 
 aren't getting proper consideration. If it was dogs they couldn't 
 be treated worse. William, I'm going to see what one old 
 
52 THE MASCOT OF BATTERY B. 
 
 woman can do, and as for asking, they'd say 'no,' for they don't 
 allow any women except at the base hospitals." 
 
 I didn't have a chance to come back till along sundown, but, 
 my stars! even in that time there had been a change. Benny's 
 mother had been getting in her deadly work. The contract sur- 
 geon took it all so well. He was a splendid young fellow, and 
 what the old lady said went! But Captain Howard hated the 
 sight of a petticoat and was dead set against women anywheres, 
 and the doctor said the old lady had to keep out of sight, and you 
 can reckon how much dodging she had to do to keep out of the 
 captain's sight. Then it got whispered around that she was our 
 mascot and carried the luck of the Battery, 
 
 But of course it couldn't be kept up forever — I mean about 
 the captain — and sure enough, one day he caught her riding on a 
 gun-carriage while he was passing along the line. 
 
 ''Good Lord!" he said like that. "Madam, do you belong to 
 this column?" 
 
 "Unofficially I do." 
 
 "Might I inquire where you came from?" 
 
 "Oakland, California," she said. 
 
 "And is this your usual mode of locomotion? Riding on a 
 gun?" 
 
 The old lady, now as bold as brass, allowed that it was. 
 
 "Scandalous!" roared the captain. "Scandalous!" 
 
 She ran up her little parasol and looked the captain in the eye. 
 "Yes, I do belong to this column, and I guess it would be a 
 smaller column by a dozen if it hadn't been for me in your field 
 hospital. Or twenty," she said. "Or maybe more," said she. 
 
 This kind of staggered the captain. It was plain he didn't 
 know just what to do. We were hundreds of miles from any- 
 wheres and there were Aguinaldos all around us. 
 
 ' 'When we strike the railroad, home you go, ' ' said he. 
 
 "We'll see about that," said the old lady. 
 
 "Holy smoke!" he said, galloping off very fierce and grand. 
 
 Well, it was perfectly lovely what happened next. You can 
 guess what her feelings was that night when the captain went 
 down with fever. It was like getting money from home! So 
 the old lady give a whoop and took him in charge. My! If she 
 wasn't good to that man, and as for coals of fire, she regular 
 slung them at him! And when the captain grew better— he was 
 
THE MASCOT OF BATTERY B. 53 
 
 that meek he'd eat out of your hand, and she called him 
 "George" and *'my boy," and you might have taken him for 
 Benny and she his ma. 
 
 There was nothing too good for the old lady after that. The 
 Queen of England couldn't have been treated with more respeck. 
 We had a pull at headquarters now, and she had a heart that big 
 that it could hold the officers and us, too. 
 
 But one afternoon she was suddenly taken very bad; and in- 
 stead of better she grew worse and worse. 
 
 "You must save her, Marcus," said the captain, holding to 
 the doctor like he was pleading for her life. "You must save her, 
 Marcus. You must do everything in the world you can, Mar- 
 cus, ' ' and then he sat down and regularly cried. And I tell you 
 he wasn't the only one that cried neither, for the boys idolized 
 the old lady and there wasn't no singing that night or cards or 
 anything. I was on picket and it was a heavy heart I took with 
 me into the dark; and when they left me laying in the grass, 
 and nobody nearer nor a hundred yards, and that behind me, I 
 felt mortal blue and lonesome and homesick and like I didn't 
 care whether I was killed or not. It was midnight when I went 
 out, and I don't know what ailed me that night— but somehow I 
 couldn't keep the sleep away; and I'd go off and off though I 
 tried my best not to; and I would kind of drown, drown, in sleep. 
 And you must remember it had been a hard day and the guns 
 had stuck again and again in the mud, and it was pull mule, pull 
 soldier, till you thought you'd drop in your tracks. Oh, I am not 
 excusing myself. I've seen men shot for sleeping on guard and 
 I know it's right. Then, just as I was no better nor a log, lying 
 there, a coward and a traitor and a black disgrace to the uni- 
 form I wore, I suddenly waked up with somebody shaking me 
 hard — and I jumped perfectly terrible to think it might be the 
 captain on his rounds. Oh, the relief when I saw it was nothing 
 else than the old lady, she kneeling beside me in the starlight. 
 
 "William, William!" she said, sorrowful and warning. And 
 just then the grass rustled in front of me and I saw rising like 
 a wall rows on rows of Filipino heads! My, but didn't I shoot 
 and didn't I run, and the bugles rang out and the whole line was 
 rushed, me pelting in and the column spitting fire. We stood 
 them off all right and my name was mentioned in orders and I 
 was promoted sergeant. But it wasn't that I was going to tell. 
 
54 THE MASCOT OF BATTERY B. 
 
 It was about the old lady, though I didn't learn it till the next 
 day. 
 
 She had died at a quarter of midnight and had laid all night on 
 the captain's bed. 
 
 Now what do you make of that? 
 
Christmas Eve at the Gulch. 
 
 By ALBERT BIGKLOW PAINE. 
 
 Reprinted from Sabbath Reading. 
 
Christmas Eve at the Gulch, 
 
 THE mines had been shut down for six weeks, and money 
 in the camp was scarce. 
 
 In the cabin of Sandy Carson there was a little girl— the 
 only child in the camp— very ill. Sunny-haired Nellie Carson, 
 whom the miners had loved, petted and spoiled since the first 
 day of her arrival, steadily grew worse until the Vv^hole camp 
 spoke in whispers. 
 
 The miners knew that Dr. Dick would save Nellie if human 
 skill could avail; he hung over the little sufferer's bed and 
 watched the fluttering breath, and felt the little hot wasted 
 hand. His patient was delirious, and as he leaned over her she 
 began muttering: 
 
 "Is it Christmas yet, mamma? You said I could have a doll 
 when Christmas came, and I want it so bad, mamma; isn't it 
 Christmas yet?" 
 
 Dr. Dick lifted his head and stared about helplessly. It was 
 Christmas Eve. By morning he believed the moment would 
 come that was to decide between life and death. If only the 
 doll could be there to lay in her hand when consciousness came, 
 there was just a chance, a bare chance, that the decision might 
 be life. 
 
 "Have you the doll?" he asked anxiously of Mrs. Carson. 
 
 "No, I have never bought it. Nellie was taken ill and I did 
 not remember; and, oh. Dr. Dick, we have scarcely money for 
 food." 
 
 Half an hour later Dr. Dick went over to the Red Light Hotel. 
 
 "Boys, is there any one here that will ride over to Green Val- 
 ley to-night?" 
 
 Green Valley was a good twenty miles away, and the road was 
 believed to be impassable. A gang of outlaws infested one part 
 of the road and the stage had been fired on. 
 
 Presently a boyish figure stepped out facing Dr. Dick. 
 "What's wanted at Green Valley?" The boy could not be more 
 than seventeen. He was supposed to be a runaway, and had 
 
58 CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE GULCH. 
 
 drifted into the camp from nobody knew where. The men had 
 christened him the *'Kid," and when little Nell came he had be- 
 come her slave. 
 
 ''Well," said Dr. Dick, slowly, "to-morrow will be Christmas, 
 and the child has been promised a doll; she is talking and raving 
 about it, and I thought if we had the doll — a big one — to put 
 right before her — that, perhaps—" 
 
 The boy wheeled, facing the listening men. 
 
 "Who's got a horse?" he demanded. "Get me a good horse 
 and I'll be out of here in three minutes." 
 
 "I've got the best horse in camp," said one. "I'll have him 
 here by the time you're ready. " 
 
 ' 'The Kid will need money — chip in, boys, ' ' said another, hold- 
 ing out his hat. The coins rattled into it, but when the hat, 
 heavy with silver, was handed to him, he passed it to the doctor. 
 
 "Give that to her folks," he said. "They need it. I'll pay 
 for the doll myself. " And with a word to the restless mare, the 
 boy darted away into the night and rain. 
 
 The last clerk in the big general store at Green Valley was 
 just ready to close for the night. It was past eleven, when a 
 sound came to him from far down the street. It was the splash 
 of horse's hoofs. The horseman was turning directly towards 
 the store, and presently called out to the staring clerk. 
 
 "Get out the biggest and finest doll you've got, quick!" 
 
 The "Kid" was a mass of mud and staggered a little as he 
 walked. 
 
 "I've ridden over from the gulch since seven, and I've got to 
 get back by day-light with that doll. Hurry up with it. The 
 biggest and the highest priced one you've got. It's for a little 
 girl that's about to die, and Dr. Dick thinks it may save her if 
 we get it there in time. " 
 
 The largest box held a fully dressed doll. 
 
 "I'll take this one," said the "Kid." 
 
 "That doll is $15.00," said the clerk, hesitating. 
 
 "If it costs $150.00, I want it," answered the "Kid" sharply. 
 "And I want it in a hurry. Tie it around me high up as you 
 can— there, that'll stay, I guess. Now take your pay and tie 
 that sack to my belt. That'll do; good-night. " 
 
CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE GULCH. 59 
 
 He hurried out to where the big mare was standing in the 
 rain. "We've got to try it again, Nance, old girl," he said. 
 **We had a hard pull coming over and it'll be worse going back, 
 but we've got to get there; Nellie Carson's got to have this doll 
 to-morrow morning. She'll die if she don't get it, Nance, and 
 we're not going to let Nellie die 'if we can help it. " 
 
 A minute later he was dashing down the street into the black- 
 ness that lay between him and the little girl who was battling 
 with death in Sandy Carson's cabin. 
 
 There was a fairly good stretch of road for some distance out 
 of the Valley and they were making good headway. Then they 
 entered the heavy woods and the road became slippery. And all 
 at once he found himself saying a prayer: "God help me to 
 reach the Gulch," he whispered. "God help me to reach Nellie 
 in time. Good Nance!" he said, patting herneck, "good, beauti- 
 ful Nance." 
 
 There was better going here again and for another five miles 
 they did very well. Just beyond there was a stretch of hilly, 
 rough road, and it was there that the Green Valley stage had 
 been fired on. Suddenly the mare gave a snort and plunged so 
 quickly to one side that the "Kid" was almost unseated. Then 
 his breath stood still, for he heard men's muffled voices, then a 
 sharp, quick call of "Halt!" 
 
 He drove his heels against the mare's sides, and Nance, tear- 
 ing her head free, dashed forward, and then he heard horses' 
 hoofs behind him in pursuit. 
 
 "Good Nance, beautiful Nance," he whispered. "You can do 
 it, Nance! You can do it! God, if you will help Nance to 
 beat these cut throats, I will be a better boy. Only help Nance 
 to get there in time!'' 
 
 Suddenly from behind came two sharp reports on the night. 
 The * 'Kid' ' felt his right shoulder shrink with a fierce pain for a 
 moment and grow numb. 
 
 "Nance! Nance! they have shot me!" he moaned. "The 
 cowards have shot me. ' ' 
 
 The mare had bounded forward at the shots and was now^ run- 
 ning wildly. 
 
 "Keep it up, Nance; keep it up. I'll hang on if I can. 
 God, help me to hang on!" 
 
 He bound his hands to the saddle with the bridle rein, and then 
 
60 CHRISTMAS EVE AT THE GULCH. 
 
 the night and the roar of the waters, and the sound of the dis- 
 tant hoofs, whirled and mingled and blended into blackness and 
 silence. 
 
 A group of men stood outside the Carson cabin, waiting. Dr. 
 Dick came to the door just then. "She is between life and 
 death, ' ' he whispered. * 'If only the boy would come. ' ' 
 
 Then far down the dim road came the sound of horse's hoofs 
 and out of the woods came the mare. She was a mass of mud 
 and upon her back hung another mud-covered object which made 
 no movement or sound. Then they saw that his hands were 
 tied to the saddle. 
 
 They saw the package containing the doll, and cutting it from 
 him, handed it to Dr. Dick, who turned with it and went into 
 the house. 
 
 When he came out, he said briefly. ''The boy is hurt, 
 There was blood on the package." He kneeled down in the 
 dim light and laid his ear to the "Kid's" heart. "Carry him 
 over to the Red Light Hotel. Quick!" he commanded. 
 
 Three hours later the sweet Christmas sunshine was stream- 
 ing into the room where the "Kid" was lying. The boy, open- 
 ing his eyes, did not reahze at first where he was. Then he said, 
 faintly : 
 
 "Did I make it in time, Doc? and— and will she— will she get 
 well?" 
 
 "Yes, my boy, you saved her. She will get well. And you 
 will get well, too, 'Kid.' God bless you!" 
 
 And not one of the silent listening group outside but repeated 
 fervently, "God bless him. God bless the 'Kid.' " 
 
Selection from The Little Minister, 
 
 By J. M. BARRIK. 
 
 with the permission of the publishers, H. M. Caldwell Co. 
 
Selection from The Little Minister. 
 
 THE dog-cart bumped between the trees of Caddam, fling- 
 ing Gavin— the little minister — and the doctor at each 
 other. Within a squirrel's leap of the woods an old 
 woman was standing at the door of a mud house listening for 
 the approach of the trap that was to take her to the poorhouse. 
 
 Nanny was not crying. She had redd up her house for the 
 last time and put on her black merino. No one has heeded her 
 much these thirty years, but Nanny Webster was once a gay 
 flirt, and in Airlie Square there is a weaver with an unsteady 
 head who thought all the earth of her. Down in Airlie Square 
 he is weaving for his life, and here is Nanny, ripe for the poor- 
 house, and between them is the hill where they were lovers. 
 That is all the story save that when Nanny heard the dog-cart 
 she screamed. 
 
 No neighbor was with her. They feared to hurt her feelings. 
 For a week they had been aware of what was coming, and they 
 had been most kind to her, but that hideous word, the poorhouse, 
 they had not uttered. Her suffering eyes cut scars on their 
 hearts. So now that the hour had come they called their chil- 
 dren into their houses and pulled down their blinds. 
 
 ' 'If you would like to see her by yourself, ' ' the doctor said 
 eagerly to Gavin, "I'll wait with the horse. Not that I feel 
 sorry for her. We are doing her a kindness. ' ' 
 
 They dismounted together, however, and Nanny, who had run 
 into the house, watched them from her window. 
 
 McQueen said, glumly, ' 'I should have come alone, for if you 
 pray she is sure to break down. Mr. Dishart, could you not 
 pray cheerfully? ' ' 
 
 *'You don't look very cheerful yourself." 
 
 * 'Nonsense, I have no patience with this false sentiment." 
 
 The door stood open, and Nanny was crouching against the 
 opposite wall of the room, such a poor, dull kitchen, that you 
 would have thought the furniture had still to be brought into it. 
 
64 SELECTION FROM THE LITTLE MINISTER. 
 
 Only the round table and the two chairs and the stools and some 
 pans were being left behind. 
 
 "Well, Nanny," the doctor said, trying to bluster, **I have 
 come, and you see Mr. Dishart is with me." 
 
 Nanny rose bravely. She knew the doctor was good to her, 
 and she wanted to thank him. I have not seen a great deal of 
 the world myself, but often the sweet politeness of the aged 
 poor has struck me as beautiful. Nanny dropped a curtesy, an 
 ungainly one maybe, but it was an old woman giving the best 
 she had. 
 
 ''Thank you kindly, sirs," she said; and then two pairs of 
 eyes dropped before hers. "Please to take a chair. " 
 
 Both men sat down, for they would have hurt Nanny by re- 
 maining standing. Some ministers would have known the right 
 thing to say to her, but Gavin dared not let himself speak. He 
 was only one and twenty. 
 
 The doctor thought it best that they should depart at once. 
 He rose. 
 
 "Oh, no, doctor," cried Nanny. 
 
 "But you are ready?" 
 
 "Ay! I have been ready this twa hours, but you micht wait a 
 minute. Hendry Munn and Andrew Allardyce is coming yont 
 the road, and they would see me. " 
 
 "Wait, doctor." 
 
 * 'Thank you kindly, sir. " 
 
 "But Nanny, you must remember what I told you about the 
 poo — about the place you are going to. It is a fine house, and 
 you will be very happy in it. '' 
 
 "Ay, I'll be happy in't but, doctor, if I could just hae bidden 
 on here though I wasna happy!" 
 
 "Think of the food you will get; broth nearly every day." 
 
 "It— it'll be terrible enjoyable." 
 
 ' 'And there will be pleasant company for you always, and a 
 nice room to sit in. Why, after you have been there a week you 
 won't be the same woman." 
 
 "That's it! Na, na; I'll be a woman on the poor's rates. Oh, 
 mither, mither, you little thocht when you bore me that I would 
 come to this!" 
 
 "Nanny, I am ashamed of you." 
 
 "I humbly speir your forgiveness, sir, and you micht bide just 
 
SELECTION FROM THE LITTLE MINISTER. 65 
 
 a wee yet. I've been ready to gang these twa hours, but now 
 that the machine is at the gate, I dinna ken how it is, but I'm 
 terrible sweer to come awa'. Oh, Mr. Dishart, it's richt true 
 what the doctor says about the — the place, but I canna just take 
 it in. I'm — I'm gey auld." 
 
 "You will often get out to see your friends." 
 
 **Na, na, na, dinna say that; I'll gang, but you mauna bid me 
 ever come out, except in a hearse. Dinna let onybody in Thrums 
 look on my face again." 
 
 *'We must go," said the doctor, firmly. 
 
 She took the bonnet from her bed and put it on slowly. 
 
 "Are you sure there's naebody looking?" she asked. 
 
 The doctor glanced at the minister, and Gavin rose. 
 
 "Let us pray," he said, and the three went down on their 
 knees. It was not the custom of Auld Licht ministers to leave 
 any house without offering up a prayer in it, and to us it always 
 seemed that when Gavin prayed, he was at the knees of God. 
 The little minister pouring himself out in prayer in a humble 
 room may have been only a comic figure, but we were old- 
 fashioned, and he seemed to make us better men. But to-day 
 Nanny came between him and his prayer: Had he been of God's 
 own image, unstained, he would have forgotten all else in his 
 Maker's presence, but Nanny was speaking, too, and her words 
 choked his. They were such moans as these that brought him 
 back to earth: 
 
 "I'll hae to gang— I'm a i)ase woman no to be mair thankfu' to 
 them that is so good to me— I dinna like to ask them to take a 
 roundabout road, and I'm sair afraid a' the Roods will see me— 
 If it could just be said to poor Sanders when he comes back that 
 I died hurriedly, syne he would be able to haud up his head — Oh, 
 mither! — I wish terrible they had come and ta'en me at nicht — 
 It's a dog-cart, and I was praying it micht be a cart, so that they 
 could cover me wi' straw." 
 
 "This is more than I can stand," the doctor cried. 
 
 Nanny rose frightened. "I've tried you, sair, but, oh, I'm 
 grateful, and I'm ready now." 
 
 They all advanced towards the door without another word, 
 and Nanny even tried to smile. But in the middle of the 
 floor something came over her, and she stood there. Gavin took 
 her hand, and it was cold. She looked from one to the other, 
 
 (6) 
 
66 SELECTION FROM THE LITTLE MINISTER. 
 
 "It's cruel hard," muttered the doctor. "I knew this woman 
 when she was a lassie." 
 
 The little niinister stretched out his hands. "Have pity on 
 her, O God!" he prayed. 
 
 Nanny heard the words. "Oh, God," she cried, "you micht!" 
 
 God needs no minister to tell Him what to do, but it was His 
 will that the poorhouse should not have this woman. He made 
 use of a strange instrument, no other than the gypsy girl, who 
 now opened the mud house door. The gypsy had been passing 
 the house and it was only curiosity, born suddenly of Gavin's 
 cry, that made her enter. Nanny, too distraught to think, fell 
 crying at the gypsy girl's feet. 
 
 "They are taking me to the poorhouse; dinna let them, dinna 
 let them." 
 
 The gypsy girl's arms clasped her, and the gypsy kissed a sal- 
 low cheek that had once been fair. No one had caressed Nanny 
 for many years, but do you think she was too poor and old to 
 care for these young arms round her neck? When the gypsy 
 turned with flashing eyes to the two men she might have been a 
 mother guarding her child. 
 
 "How dare you!" she cried, and they quaked like malefactors. 
 
 "You don't see — " Gavin began, but her indignation stopped 
 him. 
 
 "You coward!" she said. 
 
 Even the doctor had been impressed, so that he now addressed 
 the gypsy respectfully. 
 
 "This is all very well," he said, "but a woman's sympathy — " 
 
 "A woman! — ah, if I could be a man for only five minutes!" 
 
 She clenched her little fists, and again turned to Nanny. 
 
 "You poor dear, I won't let them take you away." She looked 
 triumphantly at both minister and doctor, as one who had foiled 
 them in their cruel designs. 
 
 "Go!" she said, pointing grandly to the door. 
 
 Then to the gypsy Gavin said, firmly: 
 
 "You mean well, but you are doing this poor woman a cruelty 
 in holding out hopes to h-er that cannot be realized. Sympathy 
 isn ot meal and bedclothes, and these are what she needs." 
 
 "And you who live in luxury, would send her to the poorhouse 
 for them. I thought better of you!'" 
 
 "Tuts! Mr. Dishart gives more than any other man in 
 
SELECTION FROM THE LITTLE MINISTER. 67 
 
 Thrums to the paor, and he is not to be preached to by a gypsy. 
 We are waiting for you, Nanny. ' ' 
 
 "Ay, I'm coming," said Nanny, leaving the Egyptian. "V\\ 
 hae to gang, lassie. Dinna greet for me." 
 
 But the Egyptian said, "No, you are not going. It is these 
 men who are going. Go, sirs, and leave us." 
 
 "And you will provide for Nanny?" asked the doctor, con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "And where is the siller to come from?" 
 
 "That is my aifair, and Nanny's. Begone, both of you. She 
 shall never want again. " 
 
 "I won't begone," the doctor said, roughly, "till I see the 
 color of your siller." 
 
 "It is not possible to-night, but to-morrow I will bring five 
 pounds; no, I will send it; no, you must come for it." 
 
 ' 'I suppose you are suddenly to rise out of the ground as you 
 have done to-day. " 
 
 "Whether I rise out of the ground or not, you will meet me 
 to-morrow about this hour at — say the Kaims of Cushie?" 
 
 "No," said the doctor, after a moment's pause; "I won't. 
 Even if I went to the Kaims I should not find you there. " 
 
 "How can a vagrant have five pounds in her pocket when she 
 does not have five shillings on her back?" 
 
 "You are a cruel, hard man," the girl said, beginning to lose 
 hope. "But see, look at this ring. Do you know its value?" 
 
 "Mercy on us!" Nanny cried; "I believe it's what they call a 
 diamond. " 
 
 "See, I will give it to you to hold in hostage. If I am not at 
 the Kaims to get it back you can keep it." 
 
 The doctor took the ring in his hand and examined it curiously. 
 
 "There is a quirk in this," he said at last, "that I don't Hke. 
 Take back your ring, lassie. Mr. Dishart, give Nanny your 
 arm, and I'll carry her box to the machine." 
 
 Now all this time Gavin had been in the dire distress of a man 
 possessed of two minds, of which one said, "This is a true 
 woman," and the other, "Beware!" 
 
 "You trust me," the gypsy said, with wet eyes; and now that 
 he looked on her— 
 
 "Yes," he said, firmly, "I trust you," and the words that had 
 
68 SELECTION FROM THE LITTLE MINISTER. 
 
 been so difficult to say were the right words. He had no more 
 doubt of it. 
 
 ''Give him the ring then, lassie," said McQueen. 
 
 She handed the minister the ring, but he would not take it. 
 
 *'I have your word," he said; ''that is sufficient." 
 
 "So be it," said the doctor. "Come, Mr. Dishart!" and to- 
 gether they went, leaving Nanny with the gypsy girl who had 
 saved her from the poorhouse. 
 
A Lost Sensation. 
 
 By P. Y. BI.ACK. 
 
 with the permission of Ginn & Co., Boston; also of Perry Mason & Co. 
 Boston. With the special permission of P. Y. Black. 
 
A Lost Sensation. 
 
 GLEN left the great newspaper building one evening in a 
 disturbed frame of mind, for the city editor had hinted 
 that men on other papers were finding all the good 
 things. He had not gone a block before he was aware of an 
 eager voice hailing him. It was that of a rosy and excited boy 
 of twelve years, a child of the curbstones. 
 
 "Well, Petey," the reporter called cordially, ''what can I do 
 for you?" 
 
 "Say," cried Petey, "d'you want to take in de show!" 
 
 "What show?" 
 
 "Daddy Smith's benefick. I'm de manager, I am, ^n' it aint 
 no fake show, you bet. You want to come an' put it in de pape. 
 See? Here's yer ticket. 
 
 "Dere's goin' to be de Injun Maiden. Den dere's goin' to be 
 all de new songs up to date, same as at de teayter, an' Hairy 
 Mick de shoeblack's goin' to give a skirt dance. You ever seed 
 him? He's great. 'Dmission free cents fur only dem dat haint 
 got a nickel. Dat's de press ticket fur you" 
 
 "But I think, Petey, if it's a benefit, I ought to pay for my 
 seat," said Glen, solemnly, giving the boy half a dollar. "Now 
 who is Daddy Smith, and why is he to have a benefit? Is he a 
 boy?" 
 
 "Naw! Daddy's an ole man an' a gent'mun, he is, an 'orful 
 well eddicrated. He knows mos' ev'ryt'ing, daddy does. He's 
 good to us. See? He lets all de boys wot is nice boys come up 
 to his room, an' den we's good times; an' he tells stories, an' 
 makes you want to be a hero an' die like Abrum Lincoln, and 
 have all de dude peoples cry at de fun'rals." 
 
 "I aint de same feller as I was, 'fore daddy took hold of me. 
 I'se learned things, I has; an' I tell you mister, I'se a good man 
 now. We're all diff 'runt— daddy's boys." 
 
 "But, say, mister, dere ought to be de presin — de presintashun 
 in de pape, an' I guess you can come wid me after de show an' 
 
72 THE LOST SENSATION. 
 
 see dat, 'cause Fse got to make de speeches. We want to do dis 
 t'ing in style. See?" 
 
 The entertainment was entirely orderly and passed off with 
 great success. Petey joined Glen when the programme was 
 finished, with a face glowing with satisfaction. 
 
 'Tse got a dollar an' sixty cents," he said radiantly, "an' de 
 half-dollar you give me. Say, dat'll pay daddy's room rent fur 
 more'n a week. De kids has 'p'inted me a dallygit to give de 
 coin to Daddy Smith. You come wid me an' see de presenshun. 
 "And oh, I say, mister, you make the speech and the presen- 
 shun, too. I ain't no Chauncy Depew!" 
 
 "Nonsense," laughed Glen. 
 
 They ascended together the greasy stairway of an old house 
 in a humble quarter, climbing until they reached the topmost 
 story. Resting on a cot in a corner a man reclined, a book still 
 between his fingers, while four youths were scattered about the 
 little room. 
 
 The boy, rushed, with a whoop of delight, into the open arms 
 of the man. 
 
 "Say, Daddy!" he cried, "de reporter saw de show, an' it'll all 
 be in de pape. See? Daddy, dis 'ere's de pape man, wots a 
 nice feller." 
 
 The man turned his moist and happy eyes at last from the 
 little boy and looked at Glen, and then there came a silence in 
 the room, and a chill, when the two men met, for the newspaper 
 man recognized at once, in this "daddy" of the boys, a criminal, 
 an untried felon, a fugitive from justice! 
 
 "I know you. Morrow!" he exclaimed. "You swindler!" 
 
 He reached for the handle of the door, but found himself con- 
 fronted by an angry lad. 
 
 "Take that back!" cried the boy. "Who's you calling a 
 swindler?" 
 
 Glen threw himself against the wall for defence, but the lads 
 darted at him from every direction, and tripped him up, so that 
 he fell heavily on the uncarpeted planks. The newspaper man 
 had been severely handled before the' old man could rise from 
 his bed and run to them. 
 
 "Boys!" he cried; and at his voice they stopped their work with 
 immediate submission. 
 
 "Forgive the boys!" he said gently. "They are good lads, and 
 
THE LOST SENSATION. 73 
 
 mean well. You irritated them by calling me that. But— you 
 were quite right. I am Morrow. " 
 
 "Do not think me a hypocrite," said the man, "because I 
 teach these lads. I should be glad if you would believe that I 
 am different from what I was. I have been ready for this, ' ' he 
 said, "but I am sorry— sorry for the boys. They believed in 
 me, and they were doing so well. They love me, and God 
 knows I do my best for them. " 
 
 Glen left the room slowly and descended to the street. He 
 thought of what credit this exclusive story of the capture of a 
 great embezzler in the morning paper would bring him with his 
 editors and comrades, and he was young, and such golden chances 
 were few. It would be his story exclusively — a notable ' 'scoop. ' ' 
 
 Glen walked on slowly. The combat in his breast was hard, 
 ambition and revenge and self -gain opposed to mercy alone. 
 Suddenly, from the shadows of the deserted, narrow street in 
 which he walked, a hasty, angry figure darted and barred the 
 way. It was Petey. 
 
 "I'se bin watchin' yer," he cried. "Aint you ashamed? Yah! 
 Ye're too mean to live! Where yer goin'? Goin' to bring de 
 cops on a old man as never hurt nobody? Aint you ashamed? 
 
 "I wish I'd never seed you. I fought you was nice. It's my 
 fault takin' you to de show, an' now de cops' 11 get daddy, an' it's 
 no more use to be heroes an' Abrum Lincolns. I'll go back to 
 me fader, an me fader'll t'ump me an' I'll run an' do it again." 
 
 *'Do what again?" said Glen. 
 
 "Steal!" sobbed Petey. "Same's I did 'fore daddy made a 
 man of me!" 
 
 Glen felt very troubled. Justice and duty were two grand 
 words, but they seemed to him of small meaning just now, if 
 they spelled ruin to these lads, struggling to be good. 
 
 Glen turned his back on the distant lamp of the police head- 
 quarters. "Come!" he said. "Let's have a talk with daddy," 
 and together they walked back and in at the silent entrance of 
 the tenement. But the room was empty. 
 
 "Daddy's skipped!" whispered Petey. "He's drowned him- 
 self!" and then without further explanations he darted out, with 
 the reporter at his heels. 
 
 The night was dark, but at the end of the pier, against the 
 blank gray of the wide river, they faintly saw a solitary figure. 
 
74 THE LOST SENSATION. 
 
 "It's daddy," cried the boy. 
 
 At the shout, the man on the end of the wharf rose to his 
 feet, and Glen saw his white face, fearful and desperate. The 
 fugitive saw them also, and turned to the river. With a cry he 
 leaped, and Glen heard the splash as the body struck the water. 
 But Petey dived like a rat after his friend. The boy seized the 
 man by his collar. 
 
 ''Mister! De boat!" Petey gasped, and Glen, searching, saw a 
 little boat at the end of the pier. He lowered himself swiftly 
 into it and sculled to the struggling pair. With violent exertion 
 he succeeded in dragging the drowning friends into the boat, and 
 sculled back to the wharf. Soon he had pulled them to safety 
 on the flooring of the pier; and then Glen turned to the boy. 
 
 ''God bless you, Petey," he said. "If daddy is worth so much 
 to you as that, take him." 
 
 "Smith," he said, "Daddy, — as the boy calls you, — that was 
 a very foolish thing to do, and wrong. In the first place, if you 
 meant to kill Morrow, the man you and I once knew, it was un- 
 necessary. I learned something to-night— Petey told me. That 
 man is dead. Between you and me and Petey, he was no good. 
 But Petey told me something else to-night. When that rascal 
 died there was born another man — quite a new man, you know, 
 and as different as possible from Morrow. He does a wonderful 
 lot of good in a humble way. It was very wrong to try to kill 
 that man, daddy. Kill him? Why I even know of some," and 
 Glen put his arm round Petey' s neck, "who would risk their 
 lives to save that man." 
 
 The boy was looking from one to the other, at first in doubt, 
 but now with a joyful face. 
 
 "An' you aint goin' to bring no cops, are you?" he cried. 
 
 "I'm going straight home, Petey," said Glen, "and I leave 
 Daddy Smith in your charge. Run! If either of you catch cold, 
 I'll wallop you, Petey." 
 
 "I tol' yer he was a nice man!" cried the boy. 
 
 Glen watched them trot off into the darkness; the boy's face 
 was radiant with gratitude. 
 
 "I am afraid," Glen muttered, "I am a very bad citizen and, 
 as a newspaper man, an abject failure. " 
 
The Identification of "Bronco Jim." 
 
 By GEORGE ADE. 
 
 with the permission of Thk Saturbay Evening Post. With the special 
 permission of George Ade. 
 
The Identification of "Bronco Jim." 
 
 JAMES Tibbetts went away from Musselwhite in 1873 as a 
 well-behaved agriculturist. He came back in 1883 as 
 "Bronco Jim," wearing the white hat of the Western 
 cavalier. His uneventful years in and about Musselwhite were 
 matters of record, but his ten years in the west were enveloped 
 in mystery, which Jim sometimes sought to deepen rather than 
 dispel. 
 
 The tantalizing part of it was that no one in Musselwhite 
 could successfully contradict any of the tingling narratives with 
 which Jim whiled away the long winter evenings and the long 
 summer days at Talbot's store. There was no denying that Jim 
 had been "out west" somewhere for ten years and that he came 
 back with a white hat and a revolver of prodigious size, and im- 
 mediately installed himself as chief story-teller. 
 
 For fully a month after his return, in 1883, "Bronco Jim" 
 chafed and champed for the open range, the swish of the lariat 
 and the cheerful bark of the six-shooter. Sometimes the fever 
 would get into his blood and he would have to go into the vacant 
 lot back of the Fredericks' livery stable and shoot at a mark. 
 Very often he would say to the line of admirers perched behind 
 him, "Boys, s'posin' that door was a Sioux." Then he would 
 fire six shots in rapid succession at the inoffensive door propped 
 up about fifty feet distant, each shot taking immediate effect. 
 This dramatic perforniance had a wonderful charm for the boys 
 of Musselwhite. But more wonderful still, was the story of 
 how he had won the passionate affection of a chief's daughter, 
 thereby incurring the deadly hatred of the chief, and being 
 compelled to make a desperate ride for life right through the 
 hostile country with bullets zipping all about! 
 
 Could any one blame "Bronco Jim" for repeating many times 
 certain words spoken to him by Nelson A. Miles: "I want this 
 here dispatch to git through on time, Jim, and you're the only 
 one I can trust to git 'er through." 
 
78 THE IDENTIFICATION OF "BRONCO JIM." 
 
 One name studded most of the narratives— the name of 
 Choctaw Bill. Jim did not say that he and Choctaw Bill had 
 slept under the same blanket every night for five years, but 
 that such a degree of intimacy existed was to be inferred from 
 the easy and familiar manner in which he made reference to the 
 famous scout. 
 
 When Jim was not present at the daily gathering in Talbot's 
 store '*Doc" Clevison, the town homeopath, frequently would 
 express the conviction that Jim was a colossal liar. "Doc" 
 Clevison had but few ambitions in this life. One of them was 
 to expose "Bronco Jim"— to show him up to all of Musselwhite 
 as a fraud and a pretender. One evening "Doc" Clevison 
 looked across at him seriously and asked, "Jim, did you ever run 
 across a Sioux chief by the najne of Blue Thunder?" 
 
 "Never knew him very well," repHed Jim. "Saw him once or 
 twice in the Snake River country. ' ' 
 
 "What kind of a lookin' fellow wuz he?" asked "Doc." 
 
 "Tall and light-complected," said Jim. "I think he wuz a 
 half-breed." 
 
 "It's funny that you'd remember him so well," said "Doc" 
 deliberately, "becuz there never wuz any chief of that name. 
 I thought the name out myself. ' ' 
 
 A painful silence ensued, with "Bronco Jim'' looking very 
 hard at "Doc" Clevison. 
 
 "There wuz a chief by that name an' I knew him as well as I 
 know you," said Jim; "but he wuzn't a Sioux — he wuz a Brule." 
 
 How was "Doc" Clevison to demonstrate, being put upon the 
 defensive, that there never had been a chief named Blue Thun- 
 der? The victory lay clearly with "Bronco Jim." 
 
 At last "Doc" Clevison's opportunity came. Choctaw Bill's 
 Wild West Show and Traveling Exposition of Life on the 
 Plains was billed to appear at Logansport. When Jim learned 
 that Choctaw Bill was to appear in Logansport he did not mani- 
 fest the keen enthusiasm that might have been expected of one 
 who had the opportunity to renew halloWed associations. 
 
 "Goin'?" asked Bill Gunning. 
 
 "Nope — don't believe I will," replied Jim. "It's an old story 
 to me. Besides, it's a mighty poor imitation of what we went 
 through out there. I don't see no particular fun in gallopin' 
 around in front of a lot of women and children, an' breakin' 
 glass balls an' so on." 
 
THE IDENTIFICATION OF ''BRONCO JIM." 79 
 
 "Won't Choctaw Bill be expectin' you?" asked "Doc." "He 
 knows you live here, don't he?" 
 
 "Last time I saw Bill we had a few words; nothin' very 
 serious, but I don't know as I'd care to make up with him unless 
 the first move came from him. " 
 
 "Jim, he'd be tickled to death to see you," said "Doc." 
 "I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll pay your way over an' take you 
 into the show if you'll agree to go." 
 
 "Well, I'll think it over." And that evening for the first 
 time in years Jim seemed disinclined to tell of Choctaw Bill and 
 life in the Indian Country. 
 
 By diplomatic persistency, "Doc" induced Jim to promise to 
 go to Logansport. When the fateful morning came "Doc" 
 Clevison lead him to the station. Jim made no outward sign of 
 being happy. Not when he arrived at the station platform and 
 was loudly greeted by Bill Gunning and Henry Talbot and Baz 
 Williamson, all of whom seemed to be in a condition of almost 
 hysterical gayety. They were overjoyed at the prospect of 
 being witnesses to the meeting of "Bronco Jim" and "Choctaw 
 Bill." 
 
 Now fortunately for James Tibbetts he had a nephew— a 
 ripening attorney with a local shrewdness. Homer Tibbetts 
 was at the station and overheard the gleeful comments of the 
 conspirators and saw the unmistakable look of gloom on his 
 uncle's face and understood the situation. 
 
 At 11.30 the great Choctaw Bill, seated in his private tent, re- 
 ceived the card of Mr. Homer Tibbetts, attorney-at-law. He 
 suspected that Mr. Tibbetts wanted two free tickets, but he 
 consented to see the gentleman. 
 
 The future U. S. Senator seated himself on the camp-stool 
 pointed out by the remarkable character with the overflow of 
 hair and the eagle eye. 
 
 "I'll come right to the point," said Homer Tibbetts. "Did 
 you ever know a man named Jim Tibbetts?" 
 
 "Tibbetts? Tibbetts?" repeated Choctaw Bill. "It seems 
 to me that a fellow by that name used to work on my ranch in 
 Nebraska." 
 
 "It's my uncle Jim and he knows you a good deal better than 
 you know him. I don't suppose that any other man in the 
 
80 THE IDENTIFICATION OF "BRONCO JIM." 
 
 United States has given you half the free advertising that 
 you've got out of my Uncle Jim. We will admit, Mr. Choctaw 
 Bill, that my uncle is the infernallest liar that ever drew the 
 breath of life. But he has been a good liar— a consistent liar, 
 and in all of his lies you have appeared to advantage. Well, 
 he's up here to-day and he's got with him a lot of doubting 
 Thomases who expect to bring him around to see you and there- 
 by show him up. So I'm appealing to you to be a good fellow. 
 I want you to recognize him when you see him. Call him by 
 name. Recall a few incidents of the Sioux war and then offer 
 him a ticket to the show. It's all right. He's got his ticket." 
 
 Choctaw Bill smiled a grim and sympathetic smile. 
 
 * 'I never went back on a friend, ' ' he said. 
 
 * 'Uncle Jim is getting on in years. His whole future as a liar 
 is now in your hands. You can save him from disgrace and 
 humiliation." 
 
 **Give me a few pointers," said Choctaw Bill, picking up a 
 pad of paper. 
 
 Meanwhile the conspirators loaded "Bronco Jim" onto a 
 trolley-car and he rode out to the show lot, overburdened with 
 the dull horror of an impending crisis. 
 
 Ashen pale, a helpless thing carried along into the maelstrom 
 of Fate, "Bronco Jim" approached the private tent of his old 
 friend and camp-mate, Choctaw Bill. 
 
 The flaps of the tent parted and the buckskin hero, at a swift 
 signal from the attorney-at-law, was holding "Bronco Jim" by 
 the hand. 
 
 "Jim Tibbetts, put her there!" he exclaimed. "It's good for 
 sore eyes to see you again. Miles was asking about you the 
 other day. I told him that you'd probably run up from Mussel- 
 white to see me. You saved my life more'n once and I figured 
 that you'd be here to-day if you had to walk the whole distance. " 
 
 Jim stood and listened with a ghastly smile, but "Doc" Clevi- 
 son and the others were too much stunned and blinded to ob- 
 serve his confusion. 
 
 To this day "Bronco Jim" will sit apart from the others try- 
 ing to explain to himself the miracle. It is all a vast mystery 
 to him. But he has the satisfaction of knowing that any story 
 he may choose to tell has the hall-mark of authority. He was 
 identified by Choctaw Bill. 
 
Selection from Pheidippides. 
 
 By ROBERT BROWNING. 
 
 (7) 
 
Selection from Pheidippides. 
 
 FIRST I salute this soil of the blessed, river and rock! 
 Gods of my birthplace, demons and heroes, honour to 
 all! 
 Archons of Athens, topped by the tettix, see, I return! 
 See, 'tis myself here standing alive, no spectre that speaks! 
 Crowned with the myrtle, did you command me, Athens and 
 
 you, 
 "Run, Pheidippides, run and race, reach Sparta for aid! 
 Persia has come, we are here, where is She?" Your command 
 
 I obeyed. 
 Ran and raced: like stubble, some field which a fire runs 
 
 through. 
 Was the space between city and city: two days, two nights did 
 
 I burn 
 Over the hills, under the dales, down pits and up peaks. 
 Into their midst I broke: breath served but for ' 'Persia has 
 
 come! 
 Persia bids Athens proffer slaves'-tribute, water and earth; 
 Razed to the ground is Eretria — but Athens, shall Athens sink, 
 Drop into dust and die— the flower of Hellas utterly die, 
 Die with the wide world spitting at Sparta, the stupid, the 
 
 stander-by? 
 Answer me quick, what help? 
 
 Lo, their answer at last! 
 'Tonder that precept of old, 'No warfare, whatever the odds 
 In your favor, so long as the moon, half -orbed, is unable to take 
 Full-circle her state in the sky! Already she rounds to it fast: 
 Athens must wait, patient as we— who judgment suspend." 
 Athens,— except for that sparkle,— thy name, I had mouldered 
 
 to ash! 
 That sent a blaze thro' my blood; off, off and away was I back, 
 —Not one word to waste, one look to lose on the false and the 
 
 vile! 
 
84 SELECTION FROM PHEIDIPPIDES. 
 
 Yet "0 Gods of my land!" I cried, as each hillock and plain, 
 Wood and stream, I knew, I named, rushing past them again, 
 "Have ye kept faith, proved mindful of honours we paid you 
 erewhile?" 
 
 Such my cry, as, rapid, I ran over Parnes' ridge; 
 Gully and gap I clambered and cleared till, sudden, a bar 
 Jutted, a stoppage of stone against me, blocking the way. 
 There, in the cool of a cleft, sat he— majestical Pan! 
 Ivy drooped wanton, kissed his head, moss cushioned his hoof; 
 All the great God was good in the eyes grave-kindly — the curl 
 Carved on the bearded cheek, amused at a mortal's awe 
 As, under the human trunk, the goat-thighs grand I saw. 
 "Halt, Pheidippides!" — halt I did, my brain of a whirl: 
 "Hither to me! Why pale in my presence?" he gracious began. 
 "Go, bid Athens take heart, laugh Persia to scorn, have faith 
 In the temples and tombs! Go, say to Athens, 'The Goat-God 
 
 saith : 
 When Persia — so much as strews not the soil — is cast in the sea, 
 Then praise Pan who fought in the ranks with your most and 
 
 least. ' 
 While, as for thee—" But enough! He was gone. If I ran 
 
 hitherto, 
 Be sure that the rest of my journey, I ran no longer, but flew. 
 Parnes to Athens — earth no more, the air was my road; 
 Here am I back. Praise Pan, we stand no more on the razor's 
 
 edge! 
 Pan for Athens, Pan for me ! I too have a guerdon rare ! 
 Then spoke Miltiades. "And thee, best runner of Greece, 
 Whose limbs did duty indeed, —what gift is promised thyself? 
 Tell it us straightway, — Athens the mother demands of her 
 
 son!" 
 Rosily blushed the youth: he paused: but, lifting at length 
 His eyes from the ground, it seemed as he gathered the rest of 
 
 his strength 
 Into the utterance— "Pan spoke thus: 'For what thou hast 
 
 done 
 Count on a worthy reward! Henceforth be allowed the release 
 From the racer's toil, no vulgar reward in praise or in pelf!' 
 
 I am bold to believe, Pan means reward the most to my mind! 
 
SELECTION FROM PHEIDIPPIDES. 85 
 
 Fight I shall, with our foremost, wherever this fennel may 
 
 grow, - 
 Pound— Pan helping us — Persia to dust, and, under the deep. 
 Whelm her away forever, and then,— no Athens to save,— 
 Marry a certain maid, I know keeps faith to the brave, — 
 Hie to my house and home : and, when my children shall creep 
 Close to my knees, — recount how the God was awful yet kind, 
 Promised their sire reward to the full— rewarding him — so!" 
 
 Unforeseeing one! Yes, he fought on the Marathon day: 
 So, when Persia was dust, all cried ' 'To Akropolis ! 
 Run, Pheidippides, one race more! the meed is thy due! 
 'Athens is saved, thank Pan,' go shout!" He flung down his 
 
 shield. 
 Ran like fire once more: and the space 'twixt the Fennel-field 
 And Athens was stubble again, a field which a fire runs through. 
 Till in he broke: "Rejoice, we conquer!" Like wine thro' clay 
 Joy in his blood bursting his heart, he died— the bliss! 
 So, to this day, when friend meets friend, the word of salute 
 Is still "Rejoice!"— his word which brought rejoicing indeed. 
 So is Pheidippides happy forever, — the noble, strong man 
 Who could race like a god, bear the face of a god, whom a god 
 
 loved so well, 
 He saw the land saved he had helped to save, and was suffered 
 
 to tell 
 Such tidings, yet never decline, but, gloriously as he began. 
 So to end gloriously— once to shout, thereafter be mute: 
 "Athens is saved!"— Pheidippides dies in the shout for his meed. 
 
Selection from The Doctor's Daughter. 
 
 By SOPHIE MAY. 
 
 with the permission of L,ee & Shepard, Publishers. 
 
Selection from The Doctor's Daughter. 
 
 MARCH, having come in like a lion, was going out like a 
 tiger. Dr. Prescott had just finished his morning calls, 
 and] was urging his horse homeward. Marian was at 
 the bay-window, watching for him. 
 
 "I'm so glad you've come, papa!" she cried. "Mr. Dickey 
 has had a fall; sent an hour ago. But do come in and have your 
 dinner first." 
 
 Dr. Prescott ate a hurried dinner and then said: "Now kiss 
 me, and good by. Let us see. It will be lonely for you and 
 little brother, this afternoon, in the storm; you'd better speak 
 to Robert, when he brings the mail, and ask him to study here 
 this evening." 
 
 "O, ho, who's scat?", said Benjie. 
 
 "Not our youngest, surely," said his father, laughing. "Good 
 by, my children. ' * 
 
 And in another moment Dr. Prescott was out again in the 
 wildness of the storm. 
 
 Marian, alone with Benjie, found the afternoon dull. Night 
 set in, and her father had not returned. That was nothing very 
 strange; but where was Robert, that he did not come with the 
 mail? She sent Benjie for apples, and he came back shouting 
 gleefully, — 
 
 "Cellar's afloat! Tubs a-swimming!" 
 
 "Is it possible? Well, if we can't have apples, little brother, 
 we'll have something better. " 
 
 So they boiled molasses candy in a basin over the coals. 
 
 But still Robert did not come. The clock struck nine. 
 Benjie curled down upon the rug, to listen to the story of Jack 
 and the Beanstalk, and in two minutes was fast asleep. Marian 
 put more wood on the fire, and went to the window to look out. 
 Nothing but blackness. She dropped the curtain, laid Benjie on 
 the sofa, and came back to her seat in her mother's low rocking- 
 chair. There was no sense in being nervous; but the wildness 
 without and the stillness within^combined to be very oppressive. 
 
 The clock struck ten. It was clear that Robert was not com- 
 
90 SELECTION FROM THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 ing; he never did come as late as ten. Marian stirred the fire, 
 and wrapping herself in a shawl lay down beside Benjie on the 
 wide, old-fashioned sofa. Her father would be sure to come 
 soon. Strange what had kept Robert. 
 
 She no longer heard the wind, though it still shook the house; 
 nor the clock, though it struck eleven, then twelve. Still 
 Marian slept. Suddenly there fell a great calm. The North 
 wind stopped and held his breath. It may have been to listen 
 to the hoarse roar of many waters. The river, which had been 
 only little Bassett yesterday, had swollen now to monstrous 
 size, and was rushing headlong over its banks. On, on, with 
 the might of a conqueror, gathering force as it goes, the mad 
 river dashes and takes to itself all that comes in its way. 
 
 Now for a revel, for Bassett, the conqueror, the demon, 
 rushes thundering down stream. Boom! Crash! It goes, 
 shrieking. 
 
 Marian started up broad awake, every nerve vibrating, as if 
 from an electric shock. A roar like Niagara filled the room. 
 She threw up the window and looked out. 
 
 It was a dream, and she knew it. A dream? O, yes! The 
 Atlantic Ocean never rolled up to the door-yard before. Strange 
 she couldn't wake! 
 
 Look! the fence at the foot of the garden was quite under 
 water. The flood was coming nearer. Marian could see it 
 creeping up the south slope in the door-yard, faster, faster! 
 There was but one alternative— to rush to the hill behind the 
 house, or drown. 
 
 "0, Benjie, Benjie, wake up!" cried she, shaking him franti- 
 cally. 
 
 "Let me 'lone," growled Benjie. 
 
 "But you must get up, Benjie, little brother. We're going 
 to be drowned! Do you hear?" 
 
 Benjie was fast asleep again. 
 
 "What shall I, shall I do?" groaned the poor sister. 
 
 Seizing him in her arms, she half led, half dragged him to the 
 west door, and out on the porch. 
 
 Horror of horrors! A stream came "rushing amain down" 
 through the valley, cutting them off from the hill. Benjie, 
 awake at last, clung to her waist, moaning, "Mamie, Mamie!" 
 too frightened to cry. 
 
SELECTION FROM THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 91 
 
 'Tapa 'n' aunt Flora no business to gone off and left us," 
 wailed Benjie. **Why don't somebody see to us?" 
 
 *'Hush, little brother," said Marian. "God is right here. 
 Don't be afraid. Hark! There is poor Zephyr neighing in 
 the stable. If I go to her and let her out, perhaps she can swim. 
 Benjie, you can go up stairs and ring the big dinner-bell out of 
 the window. Somebody will hear it, and know we're in trouble, 
 and come for us, perhaps. " 
 
 *'Yes, I'll go, " said Benjie, bravely. 
 
 Marian threw a cloak over her head, and rushed to the barn. 
 She lifted the latch, and groped her way to Zephyr's crib. It 
 seemed as if the knot would never unloose; and, while Marian 
 worked at it, the loud ding-dong from the chamber window 
 ceased; Benjie had thrown down the dinner-bell in despair. She 
 could hear his frightened cry, — 
 
 ''Mamie! Mamie! 0, do come, Mamie!" 
 
 "Coming, Benjie!" 
 
 At the last desperate twitch the knot gave way. With a white, 
 fixed face, Marian went into the house, and would have drawn 
 Zephyr also; but the half -crazed animal paced, snorting, up and 
 down the porch, and as the water broke over it, plunged or was 
 borne out into the stream. 
 
 "Benjie, dear, O little Benjie," said Marian; "somebody will 
 think of us; somebody will come." 
 
 "They must 've heard the bell," said Benjie. "I rung, 'n' I 
 rung, 'n' I rung. Folks in Boston heard; couldn't help it, I rung 
 so hard." 
 
 "Benjie, we must go up stairs; the water is over our ankles. 
 We won't drown till the last minute; we'll keep a brave heart, 
 little brother. " 
 
 "Now we'll look on life from upper windows." 
 
 Lights were gleaming from all the neighboring houses, mak- 
 ing intersecting paths of fiame upon the moving sea. Marian 
 could dimly see men running down the street, and hear them 
 calling to one another. 
 
 "Help! Help!" she shouted, while Benjie screamed, "Fire! 
 Fire!" 
 
 Nobody heard, nobody answered. 
 
 Inch by inch the water was creeping up the stairs. The ice 
 without beat against the house with a dull click. Then came a 
 
92 SELECTION PROM THE DOCTOR'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 crashing of glass down stairs. The flood was breaking into the 
 lower windows. Benjie screamed. 
 
 "Darling, don't cry," said Marian, with trembling faith. 
 **You know that God cares for the little sparrows even." 
 
 **Yes, he used to; but he don't care a thing about my mar- 
 tins," sobbed Benjie, as the martin-house was borne swiftly 
 past. 
 
 Marian did not answer. She only drew her little brother close 
 to her heart, and waited. For what? 
 
 A heavy cloud sailed across the moon. Marian watched it 
 with a strange fascination, while Benjie clung to her with a 
 clasp that was absolute pain. 
 
 "Dr. Prescott! Marian!" 
 
 The voice came to her from the darkness without. She sprang 
 up with a joyful cry, — 
 
 "O, Robert, I thought you would come! Where are you? I 
 can't see." 
 
 "Here, under the window. How many are there in the 
 house. " 
 
 "Only Benjie and I. " 
 
 ' 'Go across to your room. Get out on the roof of the porch. 
 We'll row round and take you off." 
 
 The boat with its two misty figures glided out of sight. 
 
 She heard the splashing of oars, and climbed out upon the 
 slippery roof of the porch. Next came Benjie. 
 
 ' 'Move cautiously, for heaven's sake, Marian, ' ' cried Robert. 
 "Be cool, and there's no danger." 
 
 In the middle of the short journey Benjie's courage failed. 
 
 "I'm scat, Mamie; I'm awful scat! Don't let's go. Do come 
 back." 
 
 "I will go away and leave you alone, Benjie," said Robert, 
 sternly, ' 'if you cry any more. Here, Marian, steady yourself 
 by this." 
 
 And he reached up to her the blade of an oar, while with his 
 left oar he fought back the flood. 
 
 Marian reached Benjie down to Robert, who stowed him away 
 in the bottom of the boat. 
 
 "Now, Marian." 
 
 And she slid down into Robert's arms. 
 
 "Safe, safe," thought she, with an exultant thrill. "I 
 thought God meant it to be so; but I wasn't sure." 
 
Fenwick Major's Little 'Un. 
 
 By S. R. CROCKETT. 
 
 With the author's special permission. 
 
Fenwick Major's Little 'Un. 
 
 (Edinburgh student lodgings of usual type. Roger Chirnside, 
 M. A., with many books about him, seated at table. Jo Bentley 
 and 'Tad" Anderson squabbling at the fireplace.) 
 
 (Loquitur Roger Chirnside. ) 
 
 LOOK here, you fellows, if you can't be quiet, I'll kick you 
 out of this! How on earth is a fellow to get up ''head- 
 aches" for his final, if you keep making such a mischief 
 of a row? 
 
 (Starting to his feet.) Lay down that book, Bentley! Do 
 you hear? Lay down that book ! No, it's not because it is a 
 Bible. 
 
 Why am I so stung up about that book? Tell you fellows? 
 Well, I don't mind knocking off a bit and giving you the yarn. 
 That Bible belonged to Fenwick Major. I entered with Fen- 
 wick Major when I came up as a first year's man in arts. He 
 came up to college with me. Third-class carriage — our several 
 maters at the door weeping — you know the kind of thing. Fen- 
 wick's governor prowling about in the background with a tenner 
 in an envelope to stick in through the window. 
 
 His mother with a new Bible and his name on the first leaf. 
 So we came up. Fenwick Major's name stands next to mine on 
 the University books. 
 
 Well, Fenwick Major and I got through our first session to- 
 gether. We were lonely, of course, and we chummed some. 
 First go off, we lodged together. But Fenwick had hordes of 
 chips and I had only my bursary, and none too much of that. 
 Fenwick wanted a first floor. I preferred the attic, and thought 
 a sitting-room unnecessary. So we parted. I envied, but 
 luckily had no money. 
 
 Well, the short and the long of it is that Fenwick Major be- 
 gan to go to the dogs, the way you and I have seen a many go. 
 Oh, it's a gay road— room inside, and a penny all the way. But 
 there's always the devil to pay at the far end. I'm not preach- 
 ing, fellows; only you take my word for it and keep clear. 
 
96 FENWICK major's LITTLE 'UN. 
 
 Yet, in spite of the dogs, there was no mistake but Fen- 
 wick Major could work. His father was a parson— white hair 
 on his shoulders, venerable old boy, all that sort of thing. Had 
 coached Fenwick. So he got two medals that session, and the 
 fellows— his own set — gave him a supper— whisky-toddy, and 
 we'll not go home till morning — that style! 
 
 They were all in court the next day. Most of the fellows 
 gave their right enough names, but they agreed to lie about 
 Fenwick 's, for his father's sake and his medals. So Fenwick 
 went home all right with his two medals. His father met him 
 at the station, proud as Punch. His mother took possession of 
 the medals; and when she thought that Fenwick Major was out 
 of the way, she took them all round the parish in her black reti- 
 cule basket, velvet cases and all, and showed them to the good- 
 wives. 
 
 Then Fenwick Major went back to Edinburgh, as he told his 
 father, to read during the summer session, and when he came 
 up again in November, Fenwick Major was going it harder than 
 ever. Then he gave up attending class much, only turning up 
 for examinations. He had fits of grinding like fire at home. 
 Again he would chuck the whole thing, and lounge all day and 
 most of the night about shops in the shady lanes back of the 
 Register. 
 
 Fact was, we felt somebody ought to speak to Fenwick— so 
 all the fellows said. But of course, when it came to the point, 
 they pitched on me, and stuck at me till they made me promise. 
 
 Sol met him and said to him: "Now, look here, Fenwick, 
 this is playing it pretty low down on the old man at home and 
 your mother. Better let up on this drinking and cutting round 
 loose. It's skittles any way, and will come to no good!" 
 
 I think Fenwick Major was first of all a bit staggered at my 
 speaking to him. Later he came to himself, and told me where 
 to go for a meddling young hypocrite. 
 
 "Who are you to come preaching to me, any way?" he said. 
 
 And I admitted that I was nobody. But I told him all the 
 same that he had better listen to what I said. 
 
 But after that, Fenwick Major never looked the way I was on. 
 
 He drank more than ever; and there was the damp, bleached 
 look about his face that you see in some wards up at the in- 
 firmary. 
 
FENWICK major's LITTLE 'UN. 97 
 
 But right at the close of the session we heard that the end 
 had come. So, at least, we thought. Fenwick Major had mar- 
 ried a barmaid, or something like that. "What a fool!" said 
 some. I was only thankful that I had not to tell his mother. 
 
 But his mother was told, and his father came to Edinburgh to 
 find Fenwick Major. He did not find the prodigal son, who was 
 said to have gone to London. At any rate, his father went 
 home, and in a fortnight there was a funeral— two in a month. 
 Mother went first, then the old man. I went down to both, and 
 cursed Fenwick Major and his barmaid with all the curses I 
 knew. 
 
 I never thought to hear more of him. Did not want to. He 
 was lost. He had married a barmaid, and I knew where his 
 father and mother lay under the sod. 
 
 One night I was working here late. There was a knock at 
 the door. The landlady was in bed, so I went. , There was a 
 laddie there, bare-legged, and with a voice like a rip-saw. 
 
 "If ye please, there's a man wants awfu' to see ye at Grant's 
 Land at the back o' the Pleasance. " 
 
 I took my stick and went out into the night. I stumbled up 
 to the door, and the boy showed me in. It was a poor place — of 
 the poorest. The stair was simply filthy. But the room into 
 which I was shown was clean; and there on a bed, with the gas 
 and the dawn from the east making a queer light on his face, 
 sat Fenwick Major. 
 
 He held out his hand. 
 
 "How are you, Chirnside? Kind of you to come. This is the 
 little wife!" was what he said, but I can tell you he looked a lot 
 more. 
 
 At the word a girl in black stole silently out of the shadow, in 
 which I had not noticed her. She had a white, drawn face, and 
 she watched Fenwick Major as a mother watches a sick child 
 that is going to be taken from her up at the hospital. 
 
 "I wanted to see you, old chap, before I went — you know. 
 It's a long way to go, and there's no use in hanging back even 
 if I could. But the little wife says she knows the road, and 
 that I won't find it dark. She can't read much, the little wife- 
 education neglected and all that. Precious lot I made of mine, 
 medals and all! But she's a trump. She made a man of me. 
 Worked for me, nursed me. Yes,^ou did, Sis, and I shall say 
 
 (8) 
 
98 FENWICK major's LITTLE 'UN. 
 
 it. It won't hurt me to say it. Nothing will hurt me now, Sis. 
 
 ''Look here, Chirnside, the Little 'Un can't read; but, do you 
 know, she sleeps with my old mother's Bible under her pillow. 
 I can't read either, though you would hardly know it. I lost my 
 sight the year I married (my own fault, of course), and I've 
 been no better than a block ever since. I want you to read me 
 a bit out of the old Book. ' ' 
 
 "Why didn't you send for a minister, Fenwick?" I said. "He 
 could talk to you better than I can. " 
 
 "Don't v/ant anybody to speak to me. Little 'Un has done all 
 that. But I want you to read. And, see here, Chirnside, I was 
 a brute beast to you once— quarreled with you years ago—" 
 
 "Don't think of that, Fenwick Major!" I said. "That's all 
 right!'' 
 
 "Well, I won't, for what's the use? But Little 'Un said, 'Don't 
 let the sun go down upon your wrath.' 'And no more I will. 
 Little 'Un, ' says I. So I sent a boy after you, old man. " 
 
 And then I read three or four chapters of the Bible — out of 
 Fenwick 's mother's old Bible — the one she handed in at the car- 
 riage window that morning he and I set off for college. I 
 actually did, and this is the Bible. 
 
 When I had finished, I said — "Fenwick, I'm awfully sorry, 
 but fact is — I can't pray." 
 
 "Never mind about that, old man!" said he; "Little 'Un can 
 pray!" 
 
 And Little 'Un did pray; and I tell you what, fellows, I never 
 heard any such prayer. That little girl was a brick. 
 
 Then Fenwick Major put out fingers like pipe-staples, and 
 said— 
 
 "Old man, you'll give Little 'Un a hand— after— you know." 
 
 I don't know that I said anything. Then he spoke again, and 
 very slowly — 
 
 "It's all right, old boy. Sun hasn't gone down on our wrath, 
 has it?" 
 
 And even as he smiled and held a hand of both of us, the sun 
 went down. 
 
 Little brick, wasn't she? Good little soul as ever was! Three 
 cheers for the little wife, I say. What are you fellows snufling 
 at there? Why can't you c heer? 
 
Red-Head's Story of the Feud, 
 
 (From Stringtown-on-the-Pike.) 
 By JOHN URI IvIvOYD. 
 
 with the permission of Dodd, Mead & Co., Publishers. 
 
Red-Head's Story of the Feud. 
 
 RED-HEAD, a quiet, peculiar boy from the mountains, 
 while attending the village school at Stringtown-on-the- 
 Pike is found to be carrying a pistol, contrary to the 
 rules of the school. On being called out by the teacher and 
 forced to give up the weapon, he pleads passionately for its 
 return, and relates the following story of his life. 
 
 "I'm from the moun'ns, I am. I don't know jest how we'uns 
 came ter live thar, an' et don't make no diff 'r'nce. Our house 
 w'an't no great shakes, et jest hed two rooms an' a mud chim- 
 ney. Thet's all. 
 
 "Dad said, said he, one day when I wah a little thing, — 'don't 
 none ov yo' children cross the divide. Keep this side ov Bald 
 Hill, fer that's a feud 'twixt Holcombs and we-uns. " 
 
 "When brother Jim and I could hold a gun he taught us all 
 'bout shootin' an' grew monstrous proud ov us. One day I 
 heerd him say ter mam thet he didn't care ef the feud war on 
 ag'in. But he kept tellin' me'n Jim ter keep this side ov Bald 
 Hill, jest the same, an' we did." 
 
 "But one day we started a young deer, an' et run fer the di- 
 vide. We didn't notice whar et run, an' befoah I knew et, we 
 war goin' down the moun'n tother side ov Bald Hill. Jim war 
 ahead an' mighty close on the deer, when bang w^ent a gun in 
 the thicket, an' Jim dropped." 
 
 Here the boy stopped, hung his head, and drew his coarse 
 sleeve across his eyes. " 'Scuse me, teachah, I ain't used t' 
 talkin', an' et makes me tired t' speak so long.'" 
 
 In a moment he resumed; "A minie ball hed gone in jest 
 above one ear an' out jest below tother. I couldn't do nuthin' 
 fer Jim, an' so I drapped him an' sneaked fer the thicket. 
 
 "Mam an' dad an' little Sis war sittin' at the table eatin' 
 supper when I stepped inter the door, 'Whar's Jim?' mam axed. 
 
 "'Shot!' 
 
 "Dad got up an' pinted ter Bald Hill. 'Hev yo' boys crost the 
 divide?' 
 
102 red-head's story of the feud. 
 
 "'Yes.' 
 
 '"Es he dead?' 
 
 ** 'Yes. He's lying jest over the hog-back.' 
 
 "Dad turned ter the fire-place an' took down his big b'ar gun. 
 'I'll bring Jim home. Yo' folks keep in the cabin till I come. 
 Don't yo' go out. ' 
 
 "But dad didn't come home that night. 'Bout daylight I war 
 waked by a knock on the door. Mam took down the ir'n bar an' 
 let dad in; he hed Jim in his arms. 'The feud's on,' he said. 
 'Thar' 11 be a grave dug 'cross the hill too when we bury Jim. 
 Et war a long shot, but I caught him through the winder.' 
 
 "Well, teachah, we buried Jim in our row, an' next day Sam 
 Holcomb war buried in thern. Then we all got ready ter kill an' 
 be killed. 
 
 "One night mam war shot by a ball that come through the 
 winder. She wa'n't killed dead, but she couldn't live long, an' 
 she knowed et. 'Red,' said she ter me, 'take good care ov little 
 Sissie. An' Red, make me one promise,' 
 
 "Go on, mam, I'll do et.' 
 
 "Don't yo' let up on the feud. Red. Et must be ter the end. ' 
 
 "Yo' needn't make me promise that; I'll fight et out.' 
 
 " 'I'd die happy ef your dad were livin' ter help yo'.' 
 
 Here the teacher interrupted. "You say that your father 
 had been killed?" 
 
 "Yes; I didn't mention et, but he had been shot down 'bout a 
 month befoah. 
 
 "Next mornin' I shut Sis in the cabin an' sneaked over ter 
 Jones' an' axed him ter come an' bury mam: an' I tell yo', 
 teachah, things war monstrous quiet 'bout our place fer a time 
 after thet. Sis hed I'arned ter keep still an' stay in the house. 
 
 "She war only 'bout three years old, but she had seen some bad 
 days, teachah, an' hed lots ov sense fer sech a little thing. Jim 
 war shot, dad war shot, an' mam war shot, but thar wa'n't but 
 one Holcomb left. An' it war Sis er me next ef I couldn't git 
 him first!" 
 
 ' 'I war too little ter use the big gun, an' hed ter trust to the 
 pistol er the light rifle, an' et wa'n't fair now, fer Tom Holcomb 
 war the tallest man I ever seed, an' he shot with a Springfield 
 musket. I hedn't much chance, fer I hed ter slip in an' out the 
 
red-head's story of the feud. 103 
 
 cabin an' watch fer my own life an' care fer Sis an' try ter git 
 a bead on Holcomb. But 'twa'n't no use, things war ag'in me. 
 
 *'I slipped out one mornin' through the back door ter git some 
 meal, fer thar wa'n't a bite ov bread in the place, an' when I 
 came back the front door war wide open. I crept inter the 
 house the back way, an' thar in the open door, huggin' her little 
 rag doll, sat Sissie. I could see the head of the doll over her 
 shoulder. The sun was shinin' bright in her face, her back war 
 toward me, her little head leaned ag'in the side ov the door, an' 
 she looked es sweet es a pictur. 'Sis, ' I said, 'Sissie, yo' mus- 
 sent sit in the door; Tom Holcomb '11 git you. Sis.' But she 
 didn't say nuthin'. 'Guess she's asleep,' I thought, an' slipped 
 ter her side an' jumped at her an' cried, 'Boo! Boo!' But she 
 didn't move. The little thing hed opened the door ter sit in the 
 sunshine, an' a bullet the size ov your thumb hed ploughed 
 through her chest an' out her back. Et war a shame ter shoot 
 sech a chunk ov lead through sech a little bit ov a girl. Thet 
 bullet war big 'nough ter kill a b'ar. 
 
 "I picked her up an' laid her on the bed, an' then took an' old 
 satchel an' put a few things inter et (I hedn't much) an' careful- 
 ly wrapped up the little bloody doll, an' put thet on top. I 
 hain't got nuthin' else now ter mind me ov Sissie but thet doll. 
 I barred the front door an' slipped out the back way, out an' 
 over the spur ter Jones' house. I took my pistol — thet's the 
 very pistol (he pointed to the weapon on the table) an' left 
 the guns an' everything else." 
 
 " 'Et ain't fair,' I said ter Jones; 'Holcomb's too big fer me.' 
 
 " 'Goin' ter run away?' said Jones. 
 
 " 'No; goin' ter go away ter grow bigger. Tell Tom Hol- 
 comb thet ef he wants me I'll be in Stringtown-on-the-Pike. " ' 
 
 " 'An' ef he don't f oiler yo'?' 
 
 " 'When I'm big 'nough ter handle a Springfield gun, I'll be 
 back ag'in. Tell him the feud's on till one er the other ov us 
 es shot.' 
 
 " 'An' Sissie! Air yo' goin' ter leave Sissie?' said Jones. 
 
 " 'She don't need me no longer. Yo'll find her on the bed in 
 the cabin. Bury her in the row, 'longside ov mam. I shan't go 
 to the buryin' fo' I can't run no risk ov old Holcomb's gun. ' 
 " Thet's all, teachah. 
 "Holcomb's a dead shot, teachah, an' my head's a good 
 
104 red-head's story of the feud. 
 
 mark. Thar ain't much chance. Please give me back my pistol 
 an' give me leave ter carry et, fer I needs et bad. I hain't no 
 other friend this side ov the graveyard in the moun'ns. Ef I 
 fights any ov these 'ere boys, I'll use my fists er a stick er a 
 stone. I promise thet I'll not use a gun 'lessen Holcomb comes. 
 Ef he does, et'll mean the endin' of the feud one way er tother. 
 an' ef I hain't no gun et'll be his way, sure. I'm a bad boy, 
 teachah, es yo' folks looks at me, but yo' hain't seed things es 
 I've seed 'em. Yo' wa'n't raised in the moun'ns, an' none ov yo' 
 hain't no feud ter fight out. Please give me back my gun. I'll 
 jest set on the fence and won't bother nobody. " 
 
when Independence Was the Stake, 
 
 By ADKIvE E. THOMPSON. 
 
 By special permission of the Woman's Home Companion. Special per- 
 mission of Adele K. Thompson. 
 
when Independence Was the Stake. 
 
 a plain serving-maid, could not march with my father and 
 
 I 
 
 * brother to join the Continental army, but being only a girl 
 must perforce remain at my service with Esquire Rowland. 
 In those earlier years of the Revolution there was a sharp con- 
 flict 'twixt the old loyalty men had held for the King and the 
 love of liberty that was like a mighty rising tide. 
 
 Mistress Sarah Rowland was the toast of the young men of 
 Lewes and all the region round, and one afternoon she came can- 
 tering up the drive homeward, with a stranger on a red roan 
 horse riding by her side. He had a bearing of easy grace, and 
 his carriage suited his dress, the blue and buff uniform of a Con- 
 tinental officer. 
 
 "Here, father," called Mistress Sarah, in her clear voice, ''I 
 have entreated a guest, our friend Colonel Caesar Rodney, an' 
 it please you." 
 
 Caesar Rodney !— my own eyes opened wider at the name — one 
 of Deleware's delegates to the Continental Congress, endeared 
 for his sturdy patriotism to patriot hearts throughout the state. 
 But Mistress Sarah! I marveled at her. She was Tory to her 
 heart's core; yet, looking at Colonel Rodney, it seemed not 
 strange that being a woman she should count him worthy of her 
 charm. 
 
 Mistress Sarah, with a little curtsy and with the white plume 
 of her riding-hat curling against her white throat, her habit 
 gathered in one dainty hand, led them into the house. 
 
 With evening I went out to take up a web of linen. As I 
 knelt by the tall garden hedge folding the linen I heard steps on 
 the other side, and then Mistress Sarah's voice. 
 
 "I asked you to meet me here as we have a guest in the house 
 you may not care to meet, one Caesar Rodney." 
 
 "Caesar Rodney! What cursed luck brings him here now? 
 With that smooth tongue of his he can mold men like wax to 
 his will! The King hath not a greater enemy in all Dele ware; 
 there should be a price on his head!" 
 
108 WHEN INDEPENDENCE WAS THE STAKE. 
 
 **Yes. He is sitting over the wine now with my father, and 
 we are almost persuaded to put the cockade in our hats and cry 
 'Liberty forever!' " Then she smote her soft hands together. 
 ''Never! My father may temper and trim as he will, but I 
 say, 'Long live the King!' " 
 
 Peeping through the hedge I saw that it was an English Cap- 
 tain. He turned from his unquiet pacing. "Mistress Sarah 
 Rowland, you have a shrewd wit. Keep Caesar Rodney. The 
 Continental Congress is a pestilent body, and nobody knows the 
 mischief it may do. Use the weapons you have; charm him as 
 you so well know how; hold him to your side — the longer the 
 better." 
 
 And a baby might have envied the innocence of her soft voice 
 as she answered, quietly, ' 'I am but a simple girl, but I promise 
 I will do the little I can. ' ' 
 
 In the days that followed there were many when Colonel 
 Rodney was abroad, urging, persuading, and all with the result 
 that wavering hearts were turned again to the patriot cause. 
 
 But whatever way he rode, Sarah Rowland's starry eyes, like 
 magnets, ever drew him to her side. It was a silken leash, but 
 one strong enough to hold that noble heart. 
 
 That was a day when mails were few and uncertain; but one 
 day a courier handed in a letter for Colonel Rodney. I had but 
 time to read "Haste, with speed," when Mistress Sarah came 
 running down the stair. "Give it to me," she said, sharply, 
 "and remember, all letters are my charge!" 
 
 Somewhat later and another letter came. This time she was 
 first, but glancing over her shoulder I saw below the superscrip- 
 tion, "Important, haste!" 
 
 So the long June days, filled with sunshine and roses, passed 
 away, and the second of July had come, when a messenger, 
 dust-covered and with his horse afoam, came spurring up the 
 drive and flung himself off at the door. "Is Colonel Rodney 
 within? I must see him instantly," he demanded. 
 
 "Is it Colonel Rodney you would see?" I started, for it was 
 Sarah Rowland's clear voice at my elbow. 
 
 "Mistress, he is wanted at once in Philadelphia, and I was 
 bidden to ride as for my life till I found him and had put this 
 letter in his hands, ' ' and as he spoke he drew it from his breast. 
 
 "I will at once seek Colonel Rodney out and deliver it to him. " 
 
WHEN INDEPENDENCE WAS THE STAKE. 109 
 
 **But I was charged to give it into his own hands. " 
 
 She smiled her sweetest smile. ''Your caution is well, my 
 good man, but I have Colonel Rodney's trust. No hand save 
 mine, I promise you, shall touch the letter till he has it— and 
 you look spent and weary. ' ' She slipped a gold piece into his 
 hand. * %et this be for your refreshing. ' ' 
 
 "God's truth, mistress," bowing over her hand, "your smile 
 sweetens the gift. If Colonel Rodney win the like often I 
 wonder not at his lingering." And leaving the letter in her 
 slender fingers, he mounted his horse and galloped away. 
 
 Presently Colonel Rodney entered from the garden; but of the 
 letter there was never a word. Then it was that a sudden reso- 
 lution came to me, and slipping softly up I boldly stepped inside 
 her chamber. On the window-seat lay an unfolded letter, which 
 the first glance showed me was the one I had so lately seen. Its 
 import was that though Colonel Rodney had given no heed to 
 the letters already sent, now, for God's sake and the Colonies', 
 to make haste, for never could he be more needed. Then it re- 
 cited briefly that the resolution introduced by Lee for the inde- 
 pendence of the Colonies was still before Congress; that at its 
 consideration on June 8th and July 1st the two delegates present 
 from Deleware had voted the one for, the other against, the 
 resolution; 'that a third ballot had been ordered for July 4th, 
 when Deleware 's vote was necessary to secure its unanimous 
 adoption, and unless he was in his seat that vote would fail. 
 
 Colonel Rodney was walking up and down before the door, 
 lightly humming a tune. "Here is a letter, sir; I found it in 
 Mistress Sarah's room," I stammered. "Read it; it concerns 
 you. Not an hour ago a messenger came riding as for life and 
 gave this into her hand for you. ' ' 
 
 As he read his face grew like marble in its white sternness. 
 "John," he called to a serving-man, "saddle my horse at once— 
 instantly!" He laid his hand on my shoulder: "My good girl, 
 you have done your country a great service this day. ' ' 
 
 As he was speaking I heard a door open, and then Sarah Row- 
 land's light step. As she saw the open letter in his hand she 
 paused, while her face grew white as the lute-string gown she 
 wore. 
 
 "Mistress Sarah Rowland," and I shivered at the clear cold- 
 ness of his voice. "I never expect to look on a fairer face than 
 
110 WHEN INDEPENDENCE WAS THE STAKE. 
 
 yours; I hope I may never see a falser," and he struck the open 
 letter in his hand. 
 
 As by an effort she rallied herself. **If I have been over- 
 jealous for you, forgive me," she urged. "We shall all be sub- 
 jects of the King again; why should you risk your life? For 
 my sake stay— for my sake!" Her face was aglow with plead- 
 ing passion as she held out her arms. For an instant I fancied 
 she had swayed him, but it was only for an instant. 
 
 ''Stay? No; not if I had a hundred lives instead of one at 
 stake!" Then, as a spasm of pain crossed his face, "An hour 
 ago you held my heart in your keeping, but when trust goes love 
 flies; from now I pledge mine to my country." With that he 
 flung himself out of the door and onto his waiting horse, and 
 through the silence sounded the lessening ring of the swift hoof- 
 beats; and listening, Sarah Rowland stood, her proud head, that 
 had never drooped before, bent low, and the red roses held so 
 tightly that one by one the petals fell like blood-drops at her 
 feet. 
 
 So began Caesar Rodney's famous ride. I need not tell how 
 the miles sped behind him; the July sun grew high and hot, the 
 horse white with form; how through the lengthening sunset 
 shadows the country-folk noticed a faint and weary man bent in 
 his saddle spurring onward toward Philadelphia. 
 
 Then came the fateful morning of the Fourth of July, 1776. 
 
 The Continental Congress had assembled, the great question 
 was about to be put. Suddenly there was a little stir at the 
 door and there entered a man disordered and dust-covered. As 
 Deleware was called in the roll of states, Caesar Rodney, still 
 booted and spurred, rose in his place, and his voice rang clear as 
 he said the words, "I vote for Independence!" 
 
Captain January. 
 
 By LAURA E. RICHARDS. 
 
 Copyright 1890 and 1892 by Estes & Lauriat, by permission of Dana Estes 
 & Co. With the special permission of Laura E. Richards. 
 
Captain January. 
 
 ONE morning, after a terrible storm, Captain January, the 
 lighthouse keeper, found a little baby girl on the shore. 
 He adopted the child and brought her up, calling her Star. 
 Their love deepened with each succeeding year. But when tlie 
 little girl was about eight years old, an aunt and uncle of the 
 child learned of her whereabouts and came to claim her; but 
 Star, with flashing eyes, refused to listen to anything that 
 would separate her from her beloved Captain January. At last 
 Mrs. Morton turned to the old man with clasped hands, crying : 
 
 "Oh, Captain January! Speak to her! She will hsten to you. 
 Tell her that it is right for her to go; that you wish her to go! " 
 
 The old man's breathing was heavy and labored, but when he 
 spoke, his voice was still soothing and cheerful, though his 
 whole great frame was trembling like a withered leaf. ''Star 
 Bright," he said, ''I always told ye, ye 'member, that ye was 
 the child of gentlefolks. You've done your duty, and more than 
 your duty by me. Now 'tis time ye did your duty by them as 
 the Lord has sent to ye. You'll have — my— my respeckful love 
 and duty wherever you go, dear. And you'll not forget the old 
 Cap'n, well I know, as will be very comf 'table here—" 
 
 But here the child broke out with a wild, loud cry, which 
 made all the others start to their feet. "Do you want me to 
 go?" she cried. "Look at me. Daddy Captain! you shall look at 
 me!" She snatched the cap from his hands and flung it into the 
 fire, then faced him with blazing eyes and quivering lip. "Do 
 you want me to go?" Are you tired of me?" 
 
 Heavier and heavier grew that weight on Captain January's 
 chest. His eyes met the child's for a moment, then wavered 
 and fell.- "Why — honey — " he said slowly, "I am an old man 
 now— I — I'm a very old man. And— and— an old man likes quiet, 
 ye see; and— I'd be much quieter by myself, like; and — and 
 so, honey, I— I'd like ye to go." 
 
 ''You lie."' cried the child; and her voice rang like a silver 
 trumpet in the startled ears of the listeners. ' 'You lie to me, 
 and you lie to God; and you know you lie!" 
 
 (9) 
 
114 CAPTAIN JANUARY. 
 
 The next moment she had sprung on to the low window sill, 
 then turned for an instant, her great eyes flashing fire that fell 
 like a burning torch on every heart. Her hair fell like a glory 
 about heryivid, shining face. A moment she stood there; then, 
 like a flash, she vanished. 
 
 Captain January tottered to his old chair and sat down in it. 
 "The child is right. Lady and Gentleman!" he said. '*I lied! I 
 lied to my God, and to the little child who loved me. May God 
 and the child forgive me!" And he hid his face in his hands and 
 silence fell for a moment. 
 
 Then Mr. Morton, who had walked hastily to the window, 
 beckoned to his wife. 'Isabel," he said, in a low tone, '*I will 
 not be a party to this. I— I— you are not the woman I took you 
 for if you say another word to that old angel. Let him have 
 the child, and send him one or two of your own into the bargain. ' ' 
 But Isabel Morton, laughing through her tears, laid her hand 
 over her husband's lips for a moment. Then going to the old 
 man's chair, she knelt down by it and took his two hands 
 in hers. 
 
 * 'Captain January!" she said, tenderly. "Dear, dear Captain 
 January! the lie is forgiven; I am very, very sure it is forgiven 
 in heaven, as it will be forgiven in the child's loving heart. And 
 may God never pardon me, if ever word or look of mine come 
 again between you and the child whom God gave you!" Then 
 they went away, leaving Captain January alone beside the fire 
 in his old arm-chair. 
 
 Suddenly, at the window, there was a gleam of yellow, a flit- 
 ting shape, a look, a pause; then a great glad cry, and Star flit- 
 ted like a ray of moonlight through the window, and fell on 
 Captain January's breast. 
 
 "Daddy," she said, breaking the long, happy silence, "dear 
 Daddy, I am sorry I burned your horrid old cap!" 
 
 Quietly passed the days, the weeks, the months in the lonely 
 tower on the rock. But as winter came on, Captain January 
 grew weaker. He realized that he had but a short time to liye, 
 and he arranged with Bob Peet of the Huntress that when all 
 was well with him he would keep a signal flying night and 
 day, but when he felt that the end was n6ar he would lower the 
 signal and Bob must come ashore, so that little Star should not 
 be alone with him when the last great change should come. 
 
CAPTAIN JANUARY. 115 
 
 At last there came a day when the Captain did not even go 
 out to the porch. There was no pain now, only a strange numb- 
 ness, a creeping coldness. 
 
 At this moment, through the open doorway, came the silver 
 sound of Star's voice. Ah! the sweet childish prattle, but al- 
 ready it was growing faint upon the old man's ears. 
 
 "Star Bright!" he called; and the dancing shape came flying, 
 and stood on tiptoe in the doorway. Steady, now, January! 
 keep your voice steady, if there is any will left in you. Keep 
 your head turned a little away, lest there be any change in your 
 face, yet not turned enough to make her wonder. "Star Bright," 
 said Captain January, "It's about— time— for the Huntress — to 
 be along, isn't it?" 
 
 "Yes, Daddy," said the child; "she's just in sight now. Shall 
 I go down and wave to Bob as he goes by?" 
 
 "Yes, Honeysuckle," said the old man. "And— wait to see if 
 he comes ashore. I think— likely — ^Bob'll come ashore today. 
 Good — by. Star — Bright. ' ' 
 
 "Dear Daddy! Good-by!" cried the child, and she sped away 
 over the rocks. 
 
 If he might have looked once more, with those fast-darkening 
 eyes, at the little blessed face which held all the world in it! If 
 he could call her back now, and kiss her once more, and hold her 
 little hand— No! no! steady, January! steady, now, and stand 
 by! 
 
 Slowly the old man raises himself; feels for the wall, creeps 
 along beside it. Here is the line. Is there any strength left in 
 that benumbed arm? Yes! "For the child, dear Lord, and 
 Thou helpin' me!" 
 
 Down comes the signal, and the old man creeps back to his 
 chair again, and composes himself decently, with reverent, 
 folded hands and head bowed in waiting. "He holdeth the 
 waters in the hollow of his hand. Amen! so be it!" 
 
 Wave, little Star! Wave your little blue apron from the 
 rocks, and laugh and clap your hands for pleasure. Bend to 
 your oar. Bob Peet, and send your little black boat flying over 
 the water as she never flew before! For Captain January's last 
 voyage is over, and he is already in heaven where he would be. 
 
The One Thing Needful 
 
 By DICKENS. 
 
^N 
 
 The One Thing Needful 
 
 OW, what I want is Facts. Teach these boys and girls 
 
 Plant nothing else and root out everything else. You 
 can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts; noth- 
 ing else will ever be of any service to them. This is the princi- 
 ple upon which I bring up my own children, and this is the prin- 
 ciple on which I bring up these children. In this life, we want 
 nothing but Facts, sir; nothing but Facts." 
 
 The scene was a plain, bare, monotonous vault of a school- 
 room, and the speaker, the school-master, and the third grown 
 person present, all backed a little, and swept with their eyes the 
 inclined plane of little vessels here and there arranged in order, 
 ready to have imperial gallons of facts poured into them until 
 they were full to the brim. 
 
 Thomas Gradgrind was a man of realities, a man of facts and 
 calculations, a man who proceeds upon the principle that two 
 and two are four, and nothing over, and who is not to be talked 
 into allowing for anything over. With a rule and a pair of 
 scales, and the multiplication table always in his pocket, he was 
 ready to weigh and measure any parcel of human nature and 
 tell you exactly what it comes to. It is a mere question of 
 figures, a case of simple arithmetic. Indeed, as Mr. Grad- 
 grind eagerly sparkled at the children before him, he seemed a 
 kind of cannon loaded to the muzzle with facts, and prepared to 
 blow them clean out of the regions of childhood at one discharge. 
 
 *'Girl number twenty," said Mr. Gradgrind, ''I don't know 
 that girl. Who is that girl?" 
 
 ''Sissy Jupe, Sir," explained No. 20, blushing, standing up, 
 and courtesying. 
 
 "Sissy is not a name. Don't call yourself Sissy. Call your- 
 self Cecilia." 
 
 "It's father as calls me Sissy, sir," returned the young girl in 
 a trembling voice and with another courtesy. 
 
120 THE ONE THING NEEDFUL. 
 
 'Then he has no business to do it," said Mr. Gradgrind. "Tell 
 him he mustn't. Cecilia Jupe. Let me see. What is your 
 father?" 
 
 "He belongs to the horse-riding, if you please, sir." 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind frowned and waved off the objectionable calling 
 with his hand. 
 
 "We don't want to know anything about that, here. You 
 mustn't tell us about that here. Your father breaks horses, 
 don't he?" 
 
 "If you please, sir, when they can get any to break, they do 
 break horses in the ring, sir." 
 
 "You mustn't tell us about the ring, here. Very well, then. 
 Describe your father as a horse-breaker. He doctors sick 
 horses, I dare say?" 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir." 
 
 "Very well, then. He is a veterinary surgeon, a farrier and 
 horse-breaker. Give me your definition of a horse." 
 
 (Sissy Jupe thrown into the greatest alarm by this demand.) 
 
 "Girl No. 20 unable to define ahorse. Girl No. 20 possessed 
 of no facts, in reference to one of the commonest of animals! 
 Some boy's definition of a horse. Bitzer, yours." 
 
 "Quadruped — graminivorous Forty teeth, namely twenty- 
 four grinders, four eye-teeth and twelve incisors. Sheds coat 
 in the spring; in marshy places, sheds hoofs, too. Hoofs hard, 
 but requiring to be shod with iron. Age known by marks in 
 mouth." 
 
 Thus (and much more) Bitzer. 
 
 "Now, girl No. 20," said Mr. Gradgrind, "you know what a 
 horse is." 
 
 The third gentleman now stepped forth briskly, smiling and 
 folding his arms— a mighty man at cutting and drying he was. 
 
 "Very well," said this gentleman, "that's a horse. Now, let 
 me ask you, girls and boys, would you paper a room with repre- 
 sentations of horses?" 
 
 After a pause, one-half the children cried in chorus: "Yes, 
 sir." Upon which the other, seeing in the gentleman's face 
 that yes was wrong, cried out in chorus, "No, sir." 
 
 "Of course, No. Why wouldn't you?" 
 
 A pause. One corpulent, slow boy ventured the answer, be- 
 cause he wouldn't paper a room at all, but would paint it. 
 
THE ONE THING NEEDFUL. 121 
 
 "You must paper it," said the gentleman, rather warmly. 
 
 "You must paper it, " said Thomas Gradgrind, "whether you 
 like it, or not. Don't tell us you wouldn't paper it. What do 
 you mean, boy?' ' 
 
 "I'll explain to you then," said the gentleman, after another 
 and a dismal pause, "why you wouldn't paper a room with rep- 
 resentations of horses. Do you ever see horses walking up and 
 down the sides of rooms in reality— in fact? Do you?" 
 
 "Yes, sir," from one-half. "No, sir," from the other. 
 
 "Of course, no. Why, then, you are not to see anywhere 
 what you don't see in fact; you are not to have anywhere what 
 you don't have in fact. What is called Taste, is only another 
 name for Fact. ' ' 
 
 Thomas Gradgrind nodded his approbation. 
 
 "This is a new principle, a discovery, a great discovery," said 
 the gentleman. "Now I'll try you again. Suppose you were 
 going to carpet a room. Would you use a carpet having a rep- 
 resentation of flowers upon it?" 
 
 There being a general conviction by this time that "No, sir" 
 was always the right answer to this gentleman, the chorus of 
 No was very strong. Only a few feeble stragglers said Yes; 
 among them Sissy Jupe. 
 
 "Girl No. 20," said the gentleman. 
 
 Sissy blushed and stood up. 
 
 "So you would carpet your room or your husband's room, if 
 you were a grown woman and had a husband, with representa- 
 tions of flowers, would you?" 
 
 "If you please, sir, I am very fond of flowers." 
 
 "And is that why you would put tables and chairs upon them, 
 and have people walking over them with heavy boots?" 
 
 "It wouldn't hurt them, sir. They wouldn't crush and wither 
 if you please, sir. They would be the pictures of what was very 
 pretty and pleasant, and I would fancy — " 
 
 "Ay, ay, ay! but you mustn't fancy. That's it, you are never 
 to fancy. Fact, fact, fact, you are to be in all things regu- 
 lated and governed by fact. We hope to have before long, a 
 board of fact, composed of commissioners of fact, who will force 
 the people to be a people of fact, and of nothing but fact. You 
 must discard the word Fancy altogether. You have nothing to 
 do with it. You are not to have in any object of use or orna- 
 ment what would be a contradiction in fact. You don't walk 
 
122 THE ONE THING NEEDFUL. 
 
 upon flowers in fact; you cannot be allowed to walk upon flow- 
 ers in carpets. You don't find that foreign birds and flowers 
 come and perch upon your crockery; you cannot be permitted to 
 paint foreign birds and butterflies upon your crockery. You 
 never meet with quadrupeds going up and down walls. You 
 must not have quadrupeds represented upon walls. You must 
 use for all these purposes combinations and modifications of 
 mathematical figures which are susceptible of proof and demon- 
 stration. This is the new discovery. This is fact. This is taste." 
 
 The girl courtesied and sat down. She was very young and 
 she looked as if she were frightened by the matter-of-fact pros- 
 pect the world afforded. 
 
 "Now if Mr. M — Choakumchild, " said the gentleman, "will 
 proceed to give his first lesson here, Mr. Gradgrind, I shall be 
 happy, at your request, to observe his mode of procedure. " 
 
 Mr. Gradgrind was much obliged. 
 
 "Mr. M — Choakumchild, we only wait for you." 
 
"Green Grow the Rushes O" 
 
 By WIIyl^IAM EDWARD PENNEY. 
 
"Green Grow the Rushes O !" 
 
 I. 
 
 WHEN I was 'bout eighteen years old 
 'Nd winter evenin's long and cold 
 Come round: 'nd sleighin' got real good, 
 My gal'd put on cloak and hood 
 'Nd I would hitch up our old Fan, 
 I'd ruther have her than the span 
 Becanse I wanted one arm free 
 Fer— fer— fer drivin,' don't yer see? 
 Then when I driv up to the gate 
 She'd say I was **a leetle late" 
 In sich a way as to let me see 
 She'd been awaitin' thar fer me. 
 'Nd then we'd dash away, away. 
 With chimin' bells in the old red sleigh, 
 Singin' a song out o'er the snow 
 About ''Green Grow the Rushes 0!" 
 
 II. 
 
 'Nd when we reached the house where they 
 
 Was havin' of a grand swaray. 
 
 Or soshyble, or dance, or sich, 
 
 We'd drive into the bam 'nd hitch, 
 
 Then carry to the house a pile 
 
 0' fodder that'd make y' smile. 
 
 A milk-pan full o' doughnuts and 
 
 Another full o' pickles, and 
 
 Another full o' chicken, and — 
 
 Well, never mind about that air— 
 
 We'd lug 'em in, then skip up-stair, 
 
 Throw off our wraps 'nd then we'd run 
 
 'Nd jine the young folks, cheek aglow, J 
 
 Singin' ''Green Grow the Rushes 0!" 
 
126 ''green grow the rushes o !" 
 
 III. 
 
 The old folks in another room 
 
 Would sit as solemn as the tomb, 
 
 The men about their crops 'd speak, 
 
 The wimmen though'd slyly peek 
 
 In through the door 'nd watch their boys 
 
 'Nd gals, and laugh to hear the noise: 
 
 For wimmen's hearts they don't grow old 
 
 Like men's, likewise they don't grow cold, 
 
 Though years may top their heads with snow- 
 
 — I've had a mother 'nd I know — 
 
 What fun we had, my gal 'nd I, 
 
 As round inside the ring we'd fly; 
 
 She'd make pretence to run away, 
 
 But still I allers won the day 
 
 'Nd got life's sweetest kiss I know 
 
 Playin' * 'Green Grow the Rushes 0! 
 
 IV. 
 Then'd come the ride hum in the night. 
 Under the stars all shinin' bright 
 We didn't hurry on our way 
 Because we— we had lots to say; 
 'Nd we two nicely filled the seat, 
 'Nd oh! how fair she was, how sweet! 
 That face I never can forget; 
 I shut my eyes 'nd see it yet — 
 One evenin' when I driv' aroun' 
 To take my sweetheart out tu town. 
 The doctor's sleigh was thar, 'nd I 
 Wa^ told the gal I loved must die— 
 My little sweetheart young and fair — 
 No more I'd find her waitin' thar. 
 Or hear her voice, so soft 'nd low, 
 Singin' "Green Grow the Rushes 0!" 
 
 V. 
 Well, that was sixty year ago, 
 'Nd my head now is topped with snow. 
 Been knocked from pillar round the post, 
 'Nd got past feelin', too, almost, 
 
''GREEN GROW THE RUSHES O !" 127 
 
 But in the winter when the snow 
 
 Is coverin' all things below, 
 
 'Nd there's a swaray at my home 
 
 Tu which all the gals and fellers come, 
 
 I set in my big chair an' see 
 
 'Em frolickin' with youthful glee. 
 
 It's then my mind goes wandering back 
 
 Along my life's long, up-hill track, 
 
 'Nd tears come rolling fust I know 
 
 Tu hear, "Green Grow the Rushes 0!" 
 
 VI. 
 
 There never was a heart I guess 
 
 Without one spot o' tenderness. 
 
 Now here I am so old and sot, 
 
 'Nd cross-grained as a hemlock knot. 
 
 With a house full o' girls and boys 
 
 Makin' an everlastin' noise; 
 
 But when I hear the sleigh-bells chink 
 
 I often shut my eyes 'nd think 
 
 Away back sixty year ago 
 
 Of that sweet gal I used to know; 
 
 I see her face 'nd hear her sing, 
 
 I hear her merry laughter ring; 
 
 Upon my lips I feel her kiss 
 
 So shy, so full o' tenderness. 
 
 And see through tears a grave I know, 
 
 Where still, ''Green Grow the Rushes 0!" 
 
The Finish of Patsy Barnes. 
 
 By PAUIv IvAURKNCE DUNBAR. 
 
 With the permission of Dodd, Mead & Co,, Publishers. 
 With the special permission of Paul I/aurence Dunbar 
 
 (10) 
 
The Finish of Patsy Barnes. 
 
 HIS name was Patsy Barnes, and he and his mother Eliza 
 were denisons of Little Africa, whither Patsy's mother 
 had found her way when they had come north from Ken- 
 tucky. She was a hard-working, honest woman and day by day 
 bent over her tub, scrubbing away to keep Patsy in shoes and 
 jackets, that would wear out so much faster than they could be 
 bought. But she never murmured, for she loved the boy with a 
 deep affection. 
 
 She wanted him to go to school. But for him school had no 
 charms; his school was the cool stalls in the big livery stable 
 near at hand; the height of his ambition, to be a horseman. He 
 learned strange things about horses, and fine, sonorous oaths 
 that sounded eerie on his young lips, for he was only'tumed into 
 his fourteenth year. He was not to be blamed for this, for 
 first of all, he was born in Kentucky and had spent the very 
 days of his infancy about the paddocks near Lexington, where 
 his father had sacrificed his life on account of his love for 
 horses. The little fellow had shed no tears when he looked at 
 his father's bleeding body, bruised and broken by the fiery 
 young two-year-old he was trying to subdue. Patsy did not 
 sob or whimper, though his heart ached, for over all the feeling 
 of his grief was a mad, burning desire to ride that horse. 
 
 His tears were shed, however, when, actuated by the idea 
 that times would be easier up North, they moved to Dalesf ord. 
 Then, when he learned that he must leave his old friends, the 
 horses and their masters, whom he had known, he wept. 
 
 They had been living in Dalesf ord for a year nearly when hard 
 work and exposure brought Eliza down to bed with pneumonia. 
 They were very poor— too poor even to call in a doctor, so there 
 was nothing to do but to call in the city physician. 
 
 Patsy's heart bled as he heard the doctor talking to his 
 mother: 
 
 "Now, there can't be any foolishness about this," he said. 
 "'You've got to stay in bed and not get yourself damp. '' 
 
132 THE FINISH OF PATSY BARNES. 
 
 "How long you think I got to lay hyeah, doctah?" she asked. 
 'Tm a doctor, not a fortune-teller," was the reply. "You'll 
 lie there as long as the disease holds you. " 
 
 **But I can't lay hyeah long, doctor, case I ain't got nuffin' to 
 go on." 
 
 ''Well, take your choice: the bed or the boneyard." 
 
 Eliza began to cry. 
 
 Patsy's eyes were full of tears that scorched him and would 
 not fall. The memory of many beautiful and appropriate oaths 
 came to him; but he dared not let his mother hear him swear. 
 Oh! to have a stone — to be across the street from that man! 
 
 When the physician walked out, Patsy went to the bed and 
 bent over shamefacedly to kiss his mother. He did not know that 
 with that act the recording angel blotted out many a curious oath 
 of his. 
 
 **Nevahmin', honey," he said. "Nevah you min'. I can do 
 somep'n, an' we'll have anothar doctah." 
 
 "La, listen at de chile; what kin you do?" 
 
 "I'm goin' down to McCarthy's stable and see if I kin git 
 some horses to exercise." 
 
 A sad look came into Eliza's eyes as she said: "You'd bettah 
 not go, Patsy; dem bosses' 11 kill you yit, des lak dey did yo' 
 pappy." 
 
 But the boy was obdurate, and left the room. After this he 
 helped at McCarthy's every day. As Patsy saw his mother 
 growing worse, saw her gasping for breath and racked with 
 pain, he became convinced that the city doctor was not helping 
 her. She must have another. But the money? 
 
 That afternoon found him at the Fair grounds. The spring 
 races were on, and he thought he might get a job warming up 
 the horse of some independent jockey. He hung around the 
 stables, listening to the talk of men he knew and some he had 
 never seen before. Among the latter was a tall, lanky individ- 
 ual, holding forth to a group of men. 
 
 "No, suh," he was saying to them generally, "Pm goin' to 
 withdraw my boss, because thaih hain't nobody to ride him as he 
 ought to be rode. I haven't brought a jockey along with me, 
 so I've got to depend on pick-ups. Now, the talent's set agin 
 my hoss. Black Boy, because he's been losin' regular, but that 
 hoss has lost for the want of ridin', that's all. If I could ride 
 myself, I'd show 'em." 
 
THE FINISH OF PATSY BARNES. 133 
 
 Patsy was gazing into the stall at the horse. 
 
 ''What are you doing there?" called the owner to him. 
 
 "Look hyeah, mister," said Patsy, "ain'tthat abluegrasshoss?" 
 
 "Of co'se it is, one o' the fastest that evah grazed." 
 
 "I'll ride that hoss, mister." 
 
 "What do you know 'bout ridin'?" 
 
 **I used to gin'ally be 'roun' Mister Boone's paddock in Lex- 
 ington, an'—" 
 
 "Aroun' Boone's paddock — what! Look here, little nigger, if 
 you can ride that hoss to a winnin' I'll give you more money than 
 you ever saw before." 
 
 "I'll ride him, sir." 
 
 Patsy's heart was beating very wildly beneath his jacket. He 
 knew that glossy coat. He knew that raw-boned frame and 
 those flashing nostrils. That black horse there owed something 
 to Patsy, for it was he who killed his fathea:. 
 
 Long before the time for the race Patsy went into the stall to 
 become better acquainted with his horse. "He sholy is full o' 
 ginger," he said to the owner, whose nam« he had found to be 
 Brackett. 
 
 "He'll show 'em a thing or two," laughed Brackett. 
 
 When the bell sounded and Patsy went out to warm up, he 
 felt as if he were riding on air. Some of the jockeys laughed at 
 his get-up, but there was something in him — or under him, may- 
 be — that made him scorn their derision. Then the bell called 
 him back to the stand. 
 
 They did not get away at first, and back they trooped. A sec- 
 ond trial was a failure. But at the third they were off in a line 
 as straight as a chalk-mark. There were Essex and Firefly. 
 Queen Bess and Mosquito, galloping away side by side, and 
 Black Boy a neck ahead. Black Boy came of blood that would 
 not be passed, and to this his rider trusted. At the eighth the 
 line was hardly broken, but as the quarter was reached Black 
 Boy had increased his lead, and Mosquito was at his flank. Then, 
 like a flash, Essex shot out ahead under whip and spur. 
 
 The crowd in the stand screamed; but Patsy smiled as he lay 
 low over his horse's neck. He saw that Essex had made his 
 best spurt. His only fear was for Mosquito, who hugged and 
 hugged his flank. They were nearing the three-quarter post, 
 and he was tightening his grip on the black. Essex fell back; 
 
134 THE FINISH OF PATSY BARNES. 
 
 his spurt was over. The whip fell unheeded on his sides. The 
 spurs dug him in vain. 
 
 Another cheer from the stand, and again Patsy smiled as they 
 turned into the stretch. Mosquito had gained a head. The 
 colored boy flashes one glance at the horse and rider who are so 
 surely gaining upon him. They are half-way down the stretch, 
 and Mosquito's head is at the black's neck. 
 
 For a single moment Patsy thinks of the sick woman at home 
 and what that race will mean to her, and then his knees close 
 against the horse's sides with a firmer dig. The spurs shoot 
 deeper into the steaming flanks. Black Boy shall win; he must 
 win. The horse that killed his father shall save his mother. 
 The horse leaps away like a flash, and goes under the wire— a 
 length ahead. 
 
 Then the band thundered, and Patsy was off his horse, very 
 warm and very happy, following his mount to the stable. There, 
 a little later, Brackett found him. He rushed to him and flung 
 his arms around him. 
 
 "You little devil," he cried, "you rode like you were related to 
 that hoss! We've won! We've won!" And he began thrust- 
 ing bank notes at the boy. At flrst Patsy's eyes bulged, and 
 then he seized the money and rushed from the stable. 
 
 An hour later he walked into his mother's room with a very 
 big doctor, the greatest the druggist could direct him to. The 
 doctor left his medicines and his orders, and from that minute 
 Eliza began to recover; but the doctor always said that it was 
 EHza's pride in Patsy and his great ride that started her on the 
 road to recovery. 
 
Thrush. 
 
^^Thrush. 
 
 THERE was a paragraph in one of the New York papers 
 when Thrush was knocked off the platform of a street 
 car and under the wheels of a huge truck that crushed 
 his legs and back. A paragraph — that was all. When Thrush 
 was carried to the hospital, Ted and Jim went with him, run- 
 ning at the side of the ambulance. They would have followed 
 Thrush into the operating room to give him the support of their 
 presence, but their entrance was barred, and they were forced 
 to wait outside. The following day chey were allowed to see 
 him. "He mustn't talk," the sweet-faced nurse said. They 
 couldn't bear the sight of Thrush's colorless face at first, and 
 Ted came near breaking down, but a scowl from Jim kept him in 
 check. Jim wanted to know the extent of the damage. 
 
 "Lost 'em?" he inquired. Thrush moved his head up and 
 down, and they understood that he meant ' 'Yes. ' ' 
 
 "Feels queer, don't it?" Jim continued. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Ache, don't yer?" 
 
 "Some." 
 
 "I bet yer do! But yer all right. Thrush. If yer don't hev 
 the dandiest pair o' crutches on the Row, my name ain't Ted 
 Haffey!" 
 
 "I'll bet yer a nickle that I'll beat Limpy Dick when I git out, 
 an' him with one leg." 
 
 The nurse said, "You must go away now, boys, but you can 
 come again soon." 
 
 "I'lllook after yer bizness till yer out," said Ted as they 
 went away. 
 
 One, two, three, yes, four weeks crept by, and Thrush was 
 still a prisoner in the narrow cot. The doctor and the nurse 
 looked grave when they spoke of him. Thrush never as much 
 as hinted to Ted and Jim that he was ever blue. When they 
 asked how he felt, he always said, "Better," and they believed 
 him. They came often to see him, bringing him cheerful 
 
138 ''THRUSH." 
 
 glimpses of the outside world— their world bounded by News- 
 paper Row, the alley in which they lived, the Bowery, and lower 
 Broadway. On the occasion of their second visit they brought 
 his crutches. 
 
 * 'The fellers chipped in with us," said Ted. "We fitted 'em 
 to Limpy Dick; he's jest yer size." 
 
 There is no doubt but these were weary days for Thrush. He 
 made a brave fight to keep up courage. Then he got acquainted 
 with a little boy in the next cot, a dusky-faced little Hebrew, 
 with eyes as soft as a seal's, and full of pain, named Jakie, and 
 Thrush soon liked him immensely. They soon exchanged ex- 
 periences and after that friendship followed fast. Jakie suffered 
 great pain. One day Thrush asked Jakie what ailed him. 
 
 ' 'My back ish broke, ' ' he replied. 
 
 "That's bad!" After that, Thrush exerted all his powers of 
 entertainment in Jakie 's behalf. He told him stories by day, 
 and at night he would try to lie awake "to keep Jakie com- 
 pany, ' ' and Jakie loved him for it. One day, when the little 
 Hebrew was tossing in pain from one side of his narrow couch 
 to the other. Thrush thought of something that might make the 
 pain a little easier. 
 
 "Do yer like singin', Jakie?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "Can you sing?" asked the nurse, who was holding Jakie's 
 hands. 
 
 "Well, I guess! That's why they call me Thrush — my real 
 name is John." 
 
 To show what he conld do, Thrush piped in a voice so sweet 
 and clear that all the room was hushed. Then the boys broke 
 into an uproar: "Go it, Thrush!" "Give us another!" "Sing 
 it again." 
 
 "Can you bear it, dear?" said the nurse. 
 
 Jakie nodded. "It is de pest I efer heard, " he said. 
 
 Thus encouraged. Thrush went through his songs. He gave a 
 daily entertainment after that. If Thrush did not begin his 
 concert at a certain hour in the morning, some weak voice was 
 sure to pipe out: "When yer goin' ter tune up. Thrush?" Then 
 Thrush would respond, and the concert would continue, with in- 
 termissions, throughout the day. 
 
"THRUSH." 139 
 
 Jakie in particular could not have too much of it. When the 
 pain was hardest, he would say, ''Zing, Thrush." And Thrush 
 would sing until the pale lids dropped over Jakie's dark eyes. 
 
 After two months of this hospital life, Jim and Ted became 
 dissatisfied with Thrush's progress toward health. 'That doc- 
 tor is no good," said Jim as they were leaving the ward. "I 
 don't think he knows his bizness. " 
 
 Passing on, they met the doctor on the stairs. Jim said to 
 him, 
 
 "Be yer goin' to save Thrush? Ef yer can't, wha's the use of 
 yer bein' stuffed full of larnin' — eh?" 
 
 Jim went down stairs like a shot, closely followed by Ted. 
 When they were on the sidewalk, Jim said threateningly, "Ef 
 he isn't better by Chris'mus, we'll take him away, that's all. 
 There mus' be some doctors as isn't fools." 
 
 At that time Christmas was but a few days distant, and when 
 it came, Ted and Jim went to the hospital. It was close upon 
 dusk when they entered the ward. Ted carried three stalks of 
 white chrysanthemums. Jim carried nothing with him save a 
 fixed determination "to have it out" with the doctor, and to 
 take Thrush away at any cost, unless a speedy cure was guaran- 
 teed. The sweet-faced nurse came to meet them. "You may 
 come in, boys, but you must be quiet," she said. "Jakie is very 
 sick. Thrush is singing to him. " 
 
 The boys crept through the room on their toes, stepping with 
 such care that Thrush did not hear them until they were at his 
 bedside. He signified his pleasure at their coming by weaving 
 into his song this greeting : 
 
 "Hullo, fellers! Move the crut-crut-ches, an' set do-o-own on 
 the bed. The kid's purty ba-a-d. I'm hel-el-pin' 'im off." 
 
 This somewhat florid treatment of his words was simply that 
 Jakie might not notice a pause in the song. Poor Jakie. He 
 was "purty bad!" His little dusky face was shrunken and old; 
 his eyes were closed, but his ears were open to the song, for 
 every now and then his lips would part with the old request, 
 "Zing, Thrush." 
 
 The nurse came and stood beside him. "You have been sing- 
 ing a long time. You must be tired. ' ' 
 
 "A little," sang Thrush. "I can— I can rest to-to-morrer. 
 He's mos'— mos'— off." 
 
140 "thrush." 
 
 "He's singin' hisself away, an' they don't know it," said Jim. 
 
 It was not long before the great change came creeping over 
 Jakie. His face grew gray, and his restless body ceased its 
 turning. 
 
 "He cannot hear now," whispered the nurse. "Rest your- 
 self, my boy. " But Thrush shook his head. 
 
 "Mebbe he's where-where he ne-eds it more'n ever. I don' 
 want him to — to— thi — think I went back o-o-n 'im." 
 
 There was a little stir behind Jim, but he did not turn his 
 head. Had he done so, he would have seen an empty cot, the 
 sheet drawn up over the pillow where Jakie 's brown head had 
 lain. Thrush's voice grew fainter and fainter, until it ceased. 
 
 "He is asleep," thought Jim. He turned his head quickly to 
 see, then sprang to his feet and to Thrush's side. 
 
 "Thrush," he cried. "Thrush! what's the matter with ye? 
 What makes yer look ser white?" 
 
 There was no answer. Thrush's eyes were open, but they 
 were blue and rigid. Ted with wild eyes looked first at Thrush 
 and then at Jim, and back again to Thrush; then he turned with 
 a sob that echoed through the silent ward, and went away. But 
 Jim staid. He took Thrush's hand. "Say somethin'. Thrush! 
 only say somethin'." 
 
 Thrush's lips parted. "I know— yer— Jim, but 'taint — no — use. 
 My back— was— broke — too. I heard — him — tell— her— month 
 'go." 
 
 "An' yer never let on yer knew?" 
 
 "No— o." 
 
 "Oh, yer game. Thrush! I alwus knowed yer was. The best 
 of 'em couldn't beat that!" 
 
 The end came soon, for just as the sun went down in the 
 golden west. Thrush's silver voice was hushed, and his spirit 
 passed on. 
 
Elaine. 
 
 By ALFRED TKNNYSON. 
 
Selection from Tennyson. 
 
 ELAINE the fair, Elaine the beautiful, 
 Elaine, the Hly maid of Astolat, 
 High in her chamber, up a tower to the east, 
 Guarded the sacred shield of Lancelot. 
 He left it with her when he rode to tilt 
 For the great diamond in the diamond jousts 
 Which Arthur had ordained, and by that name 
 Had named them, since a diamond was the prize. 
 Now for the central diamond and the last 
 And largest, Arthur, holding then his court 
 Hard on the river nigh the place which now 
 Is this world's hugest, let proclaim a joust at Camelot. 
 
 Then got Sir Lancelot suddenly to horse 
 
 And there among the solitary downs 
 
 Full often lost in fancy, lost his way, 
 
 Till, fired from the west, far on a hill. 
 
 He saw the towers of Astolat. 
 
 And issuing, found the Lord of Astolat, 
 
 With two strong sons. Sir Torre and Sir Lavaine, 
 
 Moving to meet him in the castle court. 
 
 And close behind them stept the lily maid Elaine, his daughter. 
 
 Then said Sir Lancelot : 
 
 "Known am I, and of Arthur's hall, and known 
 
 What I by mere mischance have brought — my shield. 
 
 But since I go to joust as one unknown 
 
 At Camelot for the diamond, 
 
 I pray you lend me one, if such you have, 
 
 Blank, or at least with some device not mine." 
 
 He spoke and ceased. The lily maid Elaine, 
 
 Won by the mellow voice before she looked, 
 
 Lifted her eyes and read his lineaments. 
 
 She lifted up her eyes and loved him. 
 
 With that love which was her doom. 
 
 Anon, she heard Sir Lancelot cry in the coiort : 
 
 *The shield, my friend, where is it?" 
 
144 SELECTION FROM TENNYSON. 
 
 Suddenly flashed on her a wild desire 
 
 That he should wear her favor at the tilt. 
 
 She braved a riotous heart in asking for it. 
 
 "Fair lord, whose name I know not, will you wear 
 
 My favor at this tourney?" 
 
 "Nay," said he, "fair lady, since I never yet have worn 
 
 Favor of any lady in the lists. 
 
 Such is my wont, as those who know me, know." 
 
 "Yea, so," she answered, "then in wearing mine 
 
 Needs must be lesser likelihood, noble lord, 
 
 That those who know, should know you not." 
 
 "True, my child. Well, I will wear it, 
 
 Fetch it out to me. What is it?" and she told him — "a red 
 
 sleeve 
 Broidered with pearls' ' — and brought it. Then he bound 
 Her token on his helmet, with a smile. 
 Saying, "I never yet have done so much 
 For any maiden living." And the blood 
 Sprang to her face and filled her with delight. 
 
 In silence, then, she watched their arms far off 
 Sparkle, until they dipt below the downs. 
 Then to her tower she climb'd and took his shield; 
 There kept it, and so lived in fantasy. 
 
 ******** 
 
 The jousts were on. The trumpets blew, and then did either 
 
 side 
 Set lance in rest, strike spur, suddenly move, and meet in the 
 
 midst. 
 Lancelot bode a little, till he saw which were the weaker; then 
 
 he hurled into it, 
 Against the stronger. Little need to speak 
 Of Lancelot in his glory: King, duke, earl. 
 Count, baron, — whom he smote, he overthrew. 
 Then the heralds blew 
 
 Proclaiming his the prize who wore the sleeve 
 Of scarlet, and the pearls. "Advance and take your prize, the 
 
 diamond." But he answered 
 "Diamond me no diamonds! for God's love a Httle air! 
 Prize me no prizes, for my prize is death!" 
 He spoke, and vanished suddenly with young Lavaine into the 
 
 poplar grove. 
 
SELECTION FROM TENNYSON. 145 
 
 Then came the hermit out and bare him to his cave. 
 
 There stanched his wound. 
 
 And her, the lily maid, Lavaine across the poplar grove 
 
 Led to the cave. 
 
 And never woman yet did kindlier unto man, till the hermit, skill. 
 
 ed in all the simples 
 And the science of the time, 
 Told him that her fine care had saved his life. 
 And the sick man would call her friend and sister, sweet Elaine. 
 But when Sir Lancelot's deadly hurt was whole 
 To Astolat returning rode the three. 
 And Lancelot ever pressed upon the maid 
 That she should ask some goodly gift of him * 'and do not shun 
 
 to speak the wish most dear to your true heart. Delay no 
 
 longer. 
 Speak your wish, seing I must go today. ' ' 
 
 Then suddenly and passionately she spoke: 
 
 "1 have gone mad. I love you; let me die." 
 
 And Lancelot answered: ''Had I chosen to wed, 
 
 I had been wedded earlier, sweet Elaine. 
 
 But now there never will be wife of mine. " 
 
 But true you are and sweet 
 
 Beyond mine old belief in womanhood. 
 
 In all your quarrels will I be your knight. 
 
 This will I do, dear damsel, for your sake. 
 
 And more than this I cannot." 
 
 And then they bore her swooning to her tower. 
 
 While Lancelot, but sadly, rode away. 
 
 Then she besought Lavaine to write as she devised 
 
 A letter word for word, and then she said 
 
 "Oh! sweet father, deny me not, but lay the letter in my hand 
 
 A little ere I die, and close the hand upon it. 
 
 Then take the little bed on which I died and deck it like the 
 
 Queen's for richness and lay me on it, 
 And let a barge be ready on the river clothed in black. 
 I go in state to court, to meet the queen. 
 And let our dumb old man alone go with me. 
 He will guide to that palace, to the doors. " 
 
 (11) 
 
146 SELECTION FROM TENNYSON. 
 
 But ten slow mornings passed and on the eleventh she died. 
 
 And that day there was dole in Astolat. 
 
 Then rose the dumb old servitor, and the dead 
 
 Steered by the dumb, went upward with the flood — 
 
 In her right hand the lily, in her left 
 
 The letter— all her bright hair streaming down. 
 
 And that clear-featured face was lovely, for she did not seem as 
 
 dead. 
 But fast asleep, and lay as tho' she smiled. 
 And the barge, on to the palace door-way sliding, paused, 
 And the King came, girt with knights, 
 And Arthur bade the meek Sir Percivale 
 And pure Sir Galahad to uplift the maid, 
 And reverently they bore her into hall. 
 But Arthur spied the letter in her hand, 
 Stoopt, took, brake seal, and read it; this was all: 
 
 "Most noble lord. Sir Lancelot of the Lake, 
 
 I, sometimes called the Maid of Astolat, 
 
 Come, for you left me taking no farewell. 
 
 Hither, to take my last farewell of you. 
 
 I loved you, and my love had no return, 
 
 And therefore my true love has been my death. 
 
 Pray for my soul. Sir Lancelot, 
 
 As thou art a knight peerless." 
 
 Then freely spoke Sir Lancelot to them all: 
 
 ''My lord liege Arthur, and all ye that hear, 
 
 Know that for this most gentle maiden's death 
 
 Right weary am I : for good she was and true. 
 
 Yet to be loved makes not to love again. 
 
 I swear by truth and knighthood that I gave 
 
 No cause, not willingly, for such a love. 
 
 I tried to break her passion; 
 
 I left her and and I bade her no farewell; 
 
 More than this I could not, 
 
 Fair she was, my King, 
 
 Pure, as you ever wish your knights to be. 
 
 Pray for thy soul? Ay, that will L 
 
 Farewell, too — now at last — 
 
 Farewell, fair lily. ' ' 
 
 And then they buried her, not as one unknown 
 
 Nor meanly, but with gorgeous obsequies 
 
 And mass, and rolling music, like a Queen. 
 
Hugh Wynne. 
 
 By S. WKIR MlTCHEI.Iv. 
 
 with the permission of The Century Co. With the special permission of 
 S. Weir Mitchell. 
 
Hugh Wynne. 
 
 HUGH Wynne, a captain in the patriot army, had personal- 
 ly known Major Andre, and had once received at his 
 hands a great kindness, so it was with feelings of the 
 deepest distress that he learned of Andre's capture and subse- 
 quent sentence of death. 
 
 He thus relates his last interview with the gallant Major 
 Andre. 
 
 ******** 
 
 On the 30th his Excellency signed the death warrant, and, all 
 hope being at an end, I determined to make an effort to see the 
 man to whom I owed my life. I represented to the Marquis de 
 Lafayette that Mr. Andre had here no one who could be called a 
 friend, excepting only myself, and that to refuse me an inter- 
 view were needlessly cruel. 
 
 About seven in the evening of the 1st, the marquis came in 
 haste to find me. He had asked for my interview with Mr. 
 Andre as a favour to himself, and His Excellency had granted 
 the request. As I thanked him he gave me this order: 
 
 "To Major Tallmadge: 
 
 The bearer, Hugh Wynne, Esq., Captain, Second Com- 
 pany, Third Regiment of Pennsylvania foot, has herewith per- 
 mission to visit Major Andre. 
 October 1, 1780." George Washington. 
 
 I went at once — it was now close to eight in the evening— to 
 the small house of one Maby, where the prisoner was kept. 
 Six sentries marched to and fro around it, and within the room 
 two officers remained day and night with drawn swords. 
 
 I can see to-day the rising moon, the yellowish road, the long, 
 gray stone farm-house of one story, with windows set in an ir- 
 regular frame of brickwork. The door opens, and I find myself 
 in a short hall, where two officers salute as I pass. My conduc- 
 tor says, ' 'This way, Captain Wynne, ' ' and I enter a long, 
 cheerless-looking apartment, the sitting-room of a Dutch farm- 
 
150 HUGH WYNNE. 
 
 house. A huge log fire roared on the hearth, so lighting the 
 room that I saw its glow catch the bayonet tips of the sentinels 
 outside as they went and came. 
 
 In a high-backed chair sat a man with his face to the fire. It 
 was Andre. He was tranquilly sketching. He did not turn or 
 leave off drawing until Captain Tomlinson, one of the officers in 
 charge, seeing me pause, said: 
 
 "Your pardon, major. Here is a gentleman come to visit 
 you." 
 
 As he spoke the prisoner turned, and I was at once struck by 
 the extreme pallor of his face even as seen in the red light of 
 the fire. His death-like whiteness at this time brought out the 
 regular beauty of his features as his usual ruddiness of color 
 never did. 
 
 The captain did not present me, and for a moment I stood with 
 a kind of choking in the throat, which came, I suppose, of the 
 great shock Andre's appearance gave me. He was thus the 
 first to speak : 
 
 ''Pardon me," he said, as he rose, "the name escaped me." 
 
 "Mr. Hugh Wynne." 
 
 "Oh, Wynne!" he cried quite joyously; "I did not know you. 
 How delightful to see a friend; how good of you to come! Sit 
 down." Then he added: 
 
 "Well, Wynne, what can I do for you?" And then, smiling, 
 "Pshaw! what a thing is habit! What can I do for you, or, in- 
 deed, my dear Wynne, for any one? But, Lord! I am as glad as 
 a child."' 
 
 It was all so sweet and natural that I was again quite over- 
 come. "My God!" I cri-ed, "I am so sorry, Mr. Andre. I came 
 down from King's Ferry in haste when I heard of this, and 
 have been three days getting leave to see you. I have never 
 forgotten your geart kindness at the Mischianza. If there be 
 any service I can render you, I am come to offer it. ' ' 
 
 He smiled and said it would be a relief to him if he might 
 speak to me out of ear-shot of the officers. I said as much to 
 these gentlemen, and after a moment's hesitation they retired 
 outside of the still open door-way of the room leaving us free 
 to say what we pleased. He was quiet and, as always, courteous 
 to a fault; but I did not fail to observe that at times, as we 
 talked and he spoke a word of his mother, his eyes filled with 
 tears. 
 
HUGH WYNNE. 151 
 
 He said: "Mr. W^mne, I have writ a letter, which I am al- 
 lowed to send to General Washington. Will you see that he has 
 it in person? It asks that I may die a soldier's death. All else 
 is done. I must trust it to you to make sure that it does not 
 fail to be considered. I shall never forget your kindness." 
 Then he smiled and added, "My 'never' is a brief day for me, 
 WjTine, unless God permits us to remember in the world where 
 I shall be to-morrow." 
 
 I hardly recall what answer I made. I was ready to cry like a 
 child. I promised to charge myself with his messages, and said 
 at last that many officers desired me to express to him their sor- 
 row at his unhappy situation, and that all men thought it hard 
 that the life of an honest soldier was to be taken in place of 
 that of a villain and coward who, if he had an atom of honour, 
 would give himself up. 
 
 "May I beg of you, sir,'" he returned, "to thank these gentle- 
 men of your army? 'Tis all I can do; and as to General A mold— 
 no, Wynne, he is not one to do that; I could not expect it." 
 
 As I was in act to leave, he took my hand and said: "There 
 are no thanks a man about to die can give that I do not offer 
 you, Mr. Wjmne. Be assured your visit has helped me. It is 
 much to see the face of a friend. All men have been good to 
 me and kind, and none more so than his Excellency. If to- 
 morrow I could see, as I go to death, one face I have known in 
 happier hours— it is much to ask— I may count on you, I am 
 sure. Ah, I see I can! And my letter — you will be sure to do 
 your best?" 
 
 "Yes," I said, not trusting myself to speak further, and only 
 adding, "Good-by, " as I wrung his hand. Then I went out into 
 the cold October starlight. 
 
 It was long after ten when I found Hamilton. I told him 
 briefly of my interview, and asked if it would be possible for me 
 to deliver in person to the General Mr. Andre's letter. 
 
 Hamilton shook his head. "Will you wait at my quarters? I 
 will do my best for you." 
 
 The night was clear and beautiful; from the low hills far 
 and near the camp bugle-calls filled the air. A hundred yards 
 away was the house I had just left. There sat a gallant 
 gentleman awaiting death. Here, in the house above me, 
 was he in whose hands lay his fate. I pitied him too. At my 
 
152 HUGH WYNNE. 
 
 feet the little brook babbled in the night, while the camp noises 
 slowly died away. 
 
 At last I saw Hamilton approaching me through the gloom. 
 ''Come," he said. "His Excellency will see you, but I fear it 
 will be of no use." 
 
 I went with him past the sentinels around the old stone house 
 and through a hall and into a large room, and in a moment was 
 in the farther room and alone with the chief. 
 
 He looked up, and with quiet courtesy said, ' 'Take a seat, 
 Captain Wynne. Captain Wynne," he said, "I have refused to 
 see several gentlemen in regard to this sad business, but I learn 
 that Mr. Andre was your friend, and I am willing to listen to 
 you. As to this unhappy gentleman, his fate is out of my 
 hands. I have read the letter which Captain Hamilton gave 
 me." As he spoke he took it from the table and deliberately 
 read it again, while I watched him. Then he laid it down and 
 looked up. I saw that his big, patient eyes were overfull as he 
 spoke. 
 
 "I regret, sir, to have to refuse this most natural request; I 
 have told Mr. Hamilton that it is not to be thought of. Ah, Mr. 
 Wynne, there is nothing which can be done to save your friend, 
 nor indeed to alter his fate; but if you desire to say more do not 
 hesitate. You have suffered much for the cause which is dear 
 to us both." 
 
 "My God! sir," I exclaimed, "and this traitor must live un- 
 punished, and a man who did but what he believed to be his duty 
 must suffer a death of shame!" Then, half scared, I looked up, 
 feeling that I had said too much. 
 
 His face wore a look that was more solemn than any face of 
 man I had ever yet seen in all my length of years. 
 
 "There is a God, Mr. Wynne, " he said, "who punishes the 
 traitor. Let us leave this man to the shame which every year 
 must bring.' I have no wish to conceal from you or from any 
 gentleman what it has cost me to do that which, as God lives, I 
 believe to be right. You, sir, have done your duty to your 
 friend. And now may I ask of you not to prolong a too painful 
 interview?" 
 
 I bowed, saying, ' 'I cannot thank your Excellency too much 
 for the kindness with which you have listened to a rash young 
 
HUGH WYNNE. 153 
 
 "You have said nothing, sir, which does not do you honour." 
 
 I bowed and went out, overcome with the kindliness of this 
 great and noble gentleman. 
 
 Of the horrible scene at noon on the 2d of October I shall say 
 very little. A too early death never took from earth a more 
 amiable and accomplished soldier. I asked and had leave to 
 stand by the door as he came out. He paused, very white in his 
 scarlet coat, smiled, and said, "Thank you, Wynne; God bless 
 you!" and went on, recognising with a bow the members of the 
 court, and so with a firm step to his ignoble death. As I had 
 promised, I fell in behind the sad procession to the top of the 
 hill. No fairer scene could a man look upon for his last of 
 earth. The green range of the Piermont hills rose to north. 
 On all sides, near and far, was the splendour of the autumn- 
 tinted woods, and to west the land swept downward past the 
 headquarters to where the cliffs rose above the Hudson. I can 
 see it all now — the loveliness of nature, the waiting thousands, 
 mute and pitiful. I shut my eyes and prayed for this passing 
 soul. A deathful stillness came upon the assembled multitude. 
 I heard Colonel Scammel read the sentence. Then there was 
 the rumble of the cart, a low murmur broke forth, and the 
 sound of moving steps was heard. It was over. The great as- 
 semblage of farmers and soldiers went away strangely silent, 
 and many in tears. 
 
 Years afterward I was walking along the Strand in London, 
 when, looking up, I saw a man and woman approaching. It was 
 Arnold with his wife. His face was thin and wasted, a counte- 
 nance writ over with gloom and disappointment. As I crossed 
 the way, with no desire to meet him, I saw the woman look up 
 at him. Her love was all that time had left him; poor, broken, 
 shunned, insulted, he was fast going to his grave. Where now 
 he lies I know not. Did he repent with bitter tears on that 
 gentle breast? God only knows. I walked on through the 
 crowded street, and thought of the words of my great chief, 
 "There is a God who punishes the traitor." 
 
Deepwater Politics. 
 
 By MAY McHENRY. 
 
 With the permission of the Publishers of McClure's Magazine. 
 
Deepwater Politics. 
 
 IN the little village of Sweet Valley there was a great excite- 
 ment over the election of a supervisor. The Valleyites had 
 nominated John Penny Barton as their candidate, while the 
 Hillers had nominated Samuel McNab, and feeling ran high in 
 the community, even to such an extent that the engagement be, 
 tween Dolly Barton and Samuel McNab, Jr., had been broken 
 off, while Dolly went about with her head high in air and her 
 cheeks unusually flushed, and young Sam McNab's big bay horse, 
 day and night, was to be seen on the roads, as that energetic 
 young politician drove with his father over the township, visit- 
 ing every voter. 
 
 Dolly, running up to the garret window, where she could look 
 out over the bare apple-tree tops to the hill road, would go down 
 stairs again then with a red spot on each cheek. She would go 
 about her work singing so that the neighbors, hearing her, wag- 
 ged their heads and their tongues. "Dolly isn't breaking her 
 heart, anyway," they said. 
 
 One clear, cold day young Sam McNab was standing moodily 
 in front of the blacksmith's shop in Sweet Valley, when Old Man 
 Barton, Dolly's father, driving past in his sleigh, stopped and 
 beckoned. Sam crossed the road slowly. He was greeted with 
 affectionate geniality. 
 
 "Sammie, seems to me the bolt that holds the shaft on this 
 side is loose," the Old Man said. "I wish you would be so good 
 as to look at it for me. " 
 
 As Sam stooped in front of the dash-board, the Old Man leaned 
 forward and spoke, close to his ear, in a hoarse whisper: 
 
 "Dolly is going out to Dakota to her Uncle Cotner. Starts 
 to-morrow morning. Her trunk was sent down to the Flower- 
 ville station this afternoon. Made up her mind all of a sudden, 
 and none of us can stop her. Dakota is a long way off. No use 
 of her going way out there; Philadelphia or Washington, D. C, 
 would do better — for a wedding trip. " 
 
158 DEEPWATER POLITICS. 
 
 Sam stood up suddenly, with his face much redder than his 
 labors over the bolt warranted. The Old Man was looking stead- 
 ily at the weather-vane on Squire Yorkes' barn. 
 
 ''The bolt is all right, is it, Sammie?" he observed casually. 
 
 I'm obliged to you, sir. Good-by, my boy, good-by". 
 
 Shortly after dusk that evening young Sam, driving rapidly 
 down the creek road, met Dolly's father and mother headed 
 toward the village. The young man chuckled as he passed their 
 sleigh. He fingered a neatly folded paper in his vest pocket. 
 Since that far-off, happy time before his father entered upon 
 the troublesome paths of politics, he had carried that marriage 
 license in the same pocket with Dolly's rejected ring; now he in- 
 tended to put them both into use. 
 
 There was no response to Sam's eager knock, and the young 
 man walked boldly in. 
 
 ''Dolly! Dolly"! he called imperiously. 
 
 There was no answer, no light form rustling to greet him. 
 Perhaps the Old Man was mistaken, perhaps she had already 
 gone. Overcome by a sudden sense of the emptiness of the 
 house, of the village, of the universe, without Dolly, Sam bowed 
 his head against the wall and groaned aloud. 
 
 "Dolly, I'll follow you to China", he cried in his longing. 
 
 "Not China; Dakota," Dolly prompted on the stairs, half 
 laughing, half crying. 
 
 Sam bounded up two steps at a time to meet her, and— well, 
 there was no politics between them then. 
 
 When Mr. and Mrs. John Penny Barton returned from town 
 they found this remarkably explicit letter: 
 
 "Dear Father and Mother: 
 
 I have gone off to get married. I did 
 not really want to go to Dakota, anyway. Now that we've 
 made up, Sam does not want to wait, for fear we quarrel again. 
 I hate to go without saying good-by to you. You will not be 
 very mad, will you, please? 
 
 Your affectionate and dutiful daughter, 
 
 Dolly." 
 
 Across the bottom of the sheet was scrawled in a large, mas- 
 culine hand: 
 
 "It's all right, father-in-law. We will have the supervisor- 
 ship in the family, at apy rate." 
 
DEEPWATER POLITICS. 159 
 
 Ten days later Mr. and Mrs. Samuel McNab, Junior, returned 
 from their wedding trip, and rode up from the Flowerville sta- 
 tion in the Sweet Valley stage, Ben Lemon, the stage-driver, 
 greeted them hilariously. 
 
 A mile or so outside of the town, two Deepwater men passed 
 the stage in a sleigh, calling back something about * 'election" 
 and a "clean sweep". 
 
 "As I'm a sinner, yesterday was election day!" exclaimed 
 Sam. "I forgot it clean as a whistle, Dolly; didn't you"? 
 
 But Dolly only laughed, with her cheeks like red, red roses. 
 
 "Say, Ben, how did the election go off?" Sam called to the 
 driver. 
 
 "Well", he drawled, "you folks are getting back just in time 
 for the big celebration the Bartons are getting ready for at the 
 Old Man's." 
 
 "Then my pa was elected!" exclaimed Dolly. 
 
 "No-ope, not John Penney." 
 
 "Then m?/ pa was elected!" laughed Sam, squeezing Dolly's 
 hand until she shrieked softly. 
 
 "No-ope, not your pop, either." 
 
 "Then who in thunder? — Excuse me, Dolly!" 
 
 The old stage-driver smacked his lips with enjoyment. 
 
 "Well, you see, there was dissatisfaction about John Penny 
 havin' the office agin, and so both sides, Hillers and Valleyites, 
 got together, and they all agreed to consolidate, as Old Man 
 Barton called it, on a new man, and, gosh all, if he wasn't 
 elected unanimous. Eh? Who? Well, his name is S. McNab, 
 Junior, known as young Sam — son of one retired candidate, and 
 son-in-law of t'other. Gee up, there. Fan!" 
 
In the Matter of the Mission, 
 
 By Bayard VkiIvI.KR. 
 
 Copyright S. S. McClure Co., 1903. 
 Courtesy McCI^URK'S MAGAZINE. 
 
 (12) 
 
In the Matter of the Mission. 
 
 AROUND the church there were seated perhaps a dozen men 
 and half as many women. The afternoon sun cast red 
 and blue shadows from the stained glass windows, across 
 the nave, and illuminated brilliantly the text, "Love One An- 
 other, ' ' at the base of a memorial window. 
 
 The regular Fall meeting of the Presbytery had been in ses- 
 sion since early morning. No one was worried, no one uncom- 
 fortable, save one man, who was palpably suffering great men- 
 tal distress. He was an old man — a Jew. He was dressed in 
 the conventional frock coat and white tie. The coat was not 
 new, nor was the tie clean. All day long the old Jew had been 
 sitting with these men and women, yet apart. Occasionally his 
 lips moved in a muttered prayer, and once he openly bowed his 
 head upon the back of the pew in front of him, and prayed. 
 
 **We will now take up the unfinished business," finally an- 
 nounced the Moderator. "There is the matter of the Hebrew 
 Mission which went over from the April meeting. I will read 
 the resolution which was passed at the meeting in April: 
 
 "Whereas, The Presbytery is not satisfied with the work 
 done by Brother Leczynski at the Mission to the Hebrews; be it 
 
 Resolved, That unless a marked change for the better shall 
 be shown before the next meeting, the work of the Mission shall 
 be dropped." 
 
 There followed an awkward silence. 
 
 "I would like to know if there have been any tangible results? 
 How many converts has Brother Leczynski obtained in the last 
 eight months?" asked one of the younger men. 
 
 Then the Jew rose and walked slowly to the front. His voice 
 was low and husky with emotion. 
 
 "My brothers, I am glad that this subject has come up for 
 discussion. You ask if there have been any results from my 
 labor. How can I tell? I know that I have labored faithfully; 
 that I have planted the seed. Shall I live for the harvest? How 
 many of us do? Let me tell you something of my work. I 
 have much to be grateful for. The first year you allowed me 
 four hundred dollars. Out of that I have paid the rent of the 
 
164 IN THE MATTER OF THE MISSION. 
 
 Mission, I have secured Bibles, and in two years I have had 
 printed two hundred and twenty thousand pages in Hebrew for 
 my people. In the eight months which you have given me in 
 which to show what I could do, not one of you took the time or 
 gave the thought to come and see what my work was. I go 
 among my people and try to show them Christ. It is not easy. 
 There are no people in the world so hard to convert as my 
 people. Oh, my brothers, if I could only bring them to see the 
 truth! Once, about a month ago, a man told me that he had 
 found Christ. He, a Jew, stood up in that room before them all 
 and said that he knew Christ was God. That was the happiest 
 hour of my life. I know this much. They are beginning to Hs- 
 ten to me and I feel in my heart that my work is prospering and 
 will in time bring forth fruit for the harvest. My brothers, do 
 not let this work stop. I am willing to do anything, to make 
 any sacrifice, if you will only let the work continue. In this city 
 there are twenty thousand Chinese and forty thousand Jews. 
 You have almost countless missions for the conversion of the 
 Chinese. What have you for my people? One mission. I, 
 alone and single-handed, am doing the work, and already you, 
 after two years, have grown faint-hearted. Oh, Thou Father 
 of all things, instill into our hearts a love for all men and grant 
 us the wisdom to deal with this great problem in the way that 
 shall be best for us all. Amen." Then in formal tones the 
 Jew continued: 
 
 "Mr. Moderator, I move that the resolution of the previous 
 meeting be dropped and the work of the mission to the Jews be 
 continued as heretofore. ' ' 
 
 Then from a far-off corner came: "I second that motion", as 
 the old pastor emeritus of the church rose and ambled to the 
 front. 
 
 ''Mr. Moderator," said one of the younger men, "I move that 
 it be laid upon the table. ' ' 
 
 By this time the old man was close behind the Moderator's 
 chair. Slowly he turned to the young preacher, his long, bony 
 finger outstretched. 
 
 "Boy, boy, how dast you bring politics into the house of God? 
 We will consider this matter now, with the heartfelt words of 
 our brother ringing in our ears." 
 
 The old man was not used to modern methods, and before he 
 
IN THE MATTER OF THE MISSION. 165 
 
 was quite aware of what had occurred the matter was under dis- 
 cussion and half the value of the Jew's appeal was lost to him. 
 
 "Aside from all matters of sentiment"— one of the younger 
 men was speaking — "I am informed that there is no fund for 
 this purpose. That should settle the matter, I think. " 
 
 Then another member of the new element in the church rose. 
 Modernity glistened upon him. He spoke in crisp, short sen- 
 tences and seemed more of the business man than the preacher. 
 "I am more sorry than I can tell, but it would not be right to go 
 into debt for this work. It would not be honest. Mr, Modera- 
 tor, I move you that the work of the mission to the Jews be dis- 
 continued for lack of funds. ' ' 
 
 "Second that motion." 
 
 "One minute, please," said the old pastor emeritus slowly. 
 "Before that vote is cast there are a few words I want to say. 
 I have listened to words in this church— in the church for which 
 I have labored for nearly fifty years, that I never expected to 
 hear in the house of God or from the lips of one of his servants. 
 When I was a young man, we did God's work first, last, and all 
 the time to the very uttermost of our strength, and we never 
 counted the cost. We built churches to His honor and for His 
 service, and we paid for them when we could. 'The Lord will 
 provide, ' we said, and we believed it, too, and the Lord did pro- 
 vide. I know that new ways are the ways of to-day, but I am 
 an old man and so I must work in the old ways. The plea of 
 this brother has moved me mightily, and I for one want to see 
 the work he has undertaken succeed. In the eight months that 
 we have been waiting not one of you has taken the time or 
 thought to investigate the work of this Jew. How dare you, 
 then, come here and pretend that it is not good?" The voice 
 rang true and strong and the faded blue eyes flashed once more 
 with the fire of an abiding faith. 
 
 "Six months ago I heard that Leczynski's children had stopped 
 coming to Sabbath school. Those children stopped away from 
 our Sabbath school because every day when they went they 
 were stoned by the little boys and girls of their neighbors. John, 
 were your children ever stoned for going to the house of God?" 
 
 "Later a business man, a rich man, came to me and said that 
 many of his best customers were leaving him because he was 
 aiding an apostate Jew and he begged me to drop the man. I 
 
166 IN THE MATTER OF THE MISSION. 
 
 will not tell you what I said to that man, but he has not for- 
 gotten my words nor will he ever. 
 
 ''There have been exactly ten charges made that he was not 
 honest with us, and in justice to him I have investigated every 
 one of those charges. They were all lies— lies. Have any of 
 you served God under such persecution, and served Him silently 
 and uncomplainingly? 
 
 "Once he was ill. I went to him. His face was swathed in 
 bandages, his eyes cut and swollen. He had been hurt but he 
 wonld not tell me how. I know now how he was hurt. His own 
 mother, the mother whom he loves to-day, had hurled a heavy 
 stone full in his face when he went to offer her his aid when she 
 was in trouble. 
 
 ''Mr. Harkness, have you served God at such cost as this? 
 
 "For the past three weeks this man and his family have lived 
 literally and actually on nothing else. All the money has been 
 spent for the work of God. 
 
 "Mr. Thomas, have you ever gone 'hungry and seen your loved 
 ones go hungry in the service of God?" 
 
 "This, then, is what this man has given in his service to God. 
 He has hungered, he has gone ill-clad and cold, he has seen his 
 children attacked and injured, he has lost his mother, and what 
 have you given him for all this? A pitiful fifty dollars each 
 month, from which he has supported his mission, paid e very dol- 
 lar of expenses, and then eked out a livng for himself and fam- 
 ily as best he could. 
 
 "Not one of you has gone to him with aid, not one of you has 
 given him a loving word, not one of you has ever taken the trou- 
 ble to find out the terrible price he has paid for his right to 
 serve God. And the young men stand there and talk of business 
 methods. I am ashamed, I am astounded, and I am sick at 
 heart." 
 
 ' 'Mr. Moderator, I am now ready for that vote, and for the 
 honor of the old church let there be no uncertainty in its cast- 
 ing." 
 
 "Mr. Moderator" — the voice was that of the young preacher 
 — "I, too, am ashamed, utterly ashamed, and at myself. All 
 my life long there must remain in my heart the lesson taught 
 to-day. I move that the unanimous vote of this meeting be cast 
 in favor of continuing the Mission to the Jews. " 
 
IN THE MATTER OF THE MISSION. 167 
 
 "Second that motion"— the words came from every voice in 
 the church. 
 
 "And I want to be the first to offer my humble apologies to 
 Brother Leczynski, my apologies and my love and my aid. Will 
 he accept them?" 
 
 But the old Jew was praying. 
 
Betty. 
 
 Bv Charlotte Sedgwick. 
 
 With the permission of Ginn & Co.. Boston; also of Perr3- Mason & Co. 
 Publishers of the Youth's Companion. 
 
 With the special permission of Charlotte Sedg-ivick. 
 
Betty, 
 
 W] 
 the average college man failed him as a small figure 
 in a dripping white duck frock came running up the 
 veranda steps and disappeared within the hall door. 
 
 **It ill becometh a senior to show curiosity, " said the lad in 
 the hammock to himself, "but I fain would know what has gone 
 amiss with my sweet sister. I sorely fear that she has been in 
 the lake again! I will e'en go and see." And a moment later 
 he was pounding on her door, just at the top of the stairs. 
 
 * 'Betsey!" he called. She hated to be called Betsey, and he 
 knew it. "Oh, I say, Betsey!" 
 
 "Run away, Bobby, there's a good boy!" came a voice from 
 within. "I'm busy ! ' ' 
 
 "But Betty!" began he. "But Bobby!" mocked she. 
 
 "I just came up to inquire if that's the latest thing in bathing- 
 suits. Come, Betty, dear, " he wheedled, "tell your own brother 
 all about it! And say, Betty, I guess there's a box of caramels 
 in my room, and if you will— what did you say?" He grinned 
 wickedly as he heard her steps approaching the door. 
 
 "For a grave and reverend senior, I must say you show an as- 
 tonishing amount of — ^of f rivolly curiosity, ' ' she observed. 
 
 "Frivolly's good!" said he, admiringly. "Continue, Miss 
 Jennings." 
 
 "Caramels first!" said Miss Jennings. 
 
 "Suspicious child! I'll give them to you after supper. Tell 
 me how you" — 
 
 "Now, get them now!" she insisted. And Robert got them. 
 
 "Why, it was nothing at all," she began, opening the door a 
 crack to receive them. I went down to the landing to mail a 
 letter, you know,— Have a caramel, Bobby? — and there was not 
 a soul in the post-office or in the warehouse. I sat down on a 
 box in the warehouse and waited. While I sat there, that 
 French nurse— she's with those lovely people at the hotel, you 
 know— came through the warehouse with that dear little boy 
 and went out on the wharf. A few minutes later she gave an 
 
172 BETTY. 
 
 awful scream. I ran out on the dock and found her pointing 
 frantically at the water, crying, '■'Vite! Vite! O mon Dieu! 
 She had let that baby fall off the edge of the wharf, somehow! 
 The water is frightfully deep there, and the only person in sight 
 was a man in a boat, and he was too far away. There was no 
 time to lose, so you see I just had to" — 
 
 "Fall in after him? Exactly. I see. Good for you! Who 
 pulled you out?" 
 
 "Oh, the man in the boat got there in time for that. He 
 lifted the child into the boat and towed me into shallow water. 
 A lot of people were on the dock by that time, and I ran home 
 as fast as I could. Now will you go and let me get off these 
 wet things?" 
 
 Robert started down-stairs. Then he called: "Say, Betty, 
 did the baby get wet, too?" 
 
 Betty was a patient worm, but sometimes she turned. Robert 
 was only half-way down the stairs when a well-aimed duck 
 skirt struck him squarely on the head, and unrolling, wrapped 
 him in its dripping folds, while a jeering voice called: 
 
 "Say, Bobby, did you get wet, too?" 
 
 The six o'clock boat brought Mr. Jennings from his day in the 
 town at the end of the lake, twelve miles away ; and while the 
 three had supper on the broad veranda, Bob gave his father a 
 dramatic account of the rescue. 
 
 "It was thrilling!" he said. "A drama in one act. Scene, 
 the wharf, with fair Keuka in the background; French maid 
 walking up and down, holding the heir of millions by the hand— 
 the papa must have a few millions or he couldn't afford a silly 
 French nurse. The child escapes and falls into forty fathoms of 
 lake; nurse howls crescendo; enter Betty, centre; enter papa, 
 left centre; enter mamma, right centre; enter the hotel, all 
 points of compass" — 
 
 "They didn't at all!" Betty interrupted. "Don't pay any at- 
 tention to him, father. I'll tell you all about it after supper." 
 
 And when Hannah had taken the tea things away, Betty 
 perched on the arm of her father's chair and told him the story 
 of the afternoon. 
 
 "Well, Bettikin," said he, "it paid to know how to swim, 
 aside from the mere pleasure of it, didn't it?" and he stroked 
 
BETTY. 173 
 
 the curly head tenderly; and silence fell on the little group as 
 they watched the sunset light glow over lake and hill and vine- 
 yard, and then fade softly, while katydids and crickets sang the 
 day to sleep. 
 
 Now and then a sailboat glided by, looking ghostlike in the 
 dusk. Sounds of a two-step came faintly from the hotel, and 
 the moon came up across the lake, shooting shimmering 
 beams over the water. 
 
 ''Here comes some one!" exclaimed Bob, suddenly, as a boat 
 grated on the beach. ' 'I tell you, Betty, it must be papa and 
 mamma coming to thank you. The scene will be touching! 
 They'll fall on your neck and kiss you and weep, and maybe— 
 Why, Betty, where are you going? Here, hold on!" And he 
 made a grab for her skirts as she sprang up and dashed into the 
 house. 
 
 "So shy!" murmured he. "Reminds me of me when I was 
 young." And he followed her. 
 
 The stranger introduced himself as a Mr. Elliot, and asked to 
 see Miss Jennings. His host went to find the runaway, while 
 Mr. Elliot seated himself by one of the low parlor windows. 
 
 Luckless Betty! In her panic she had taken refuge in the 
 parlor, forgetting the open window, through which the words 
 of a lively discussion now reached the veranda. 
 
 "No, I don't want to go out!" a girlish voice was saying. "I 
 can't! Oh, Bob, I don't want to be thanked for — for knowing 
 how to swim! It's ridiculous!" 
 
 "But you'll have to see him, you know, Bettikin!" argued an- 
 other voice. "It would be rude not to. And it won't be so 
 bad. You won't have to say mnch, I'll stand behind and prompt 
 you, and — here's father!" 
 
 Betty submitted gracefully, like the true little gentlewoman 
 she was, putting out a shy hand to greet the dreaded stranger. 
 If there was an amused twinkle in his eyes, she didn't see it. 
 Then he sat down and began to talk as any chance caller might. 
 After a while he arose and stood looking down at Betty, who 
 got up quickly, thinking, with a return of shyness, that it was 
 coming now. 
 
 "Miss Betty, "he said, taking her hands, "you must let me tell 
 you how gratelful we are to you for— for knowing how to swim. 
 Forgive me, but I overheard what you said in the house. Dear 
 
1 74 BETTY. 
 
 child, good-by! God bless you!" and bending down, he kissed 
 her forehead. 
 
 Before Betty could think what to say, he was half-way to his 
 boat, escorted by her father and Bob. 
 
 One bright morning two weeks later, Betty was swaying back 
 and forth in the hammock, eating harvest apples. Suddenly 
 Bob appeared from the direction of the landing, and dropped 
 down beside h?r, with "Move along a little, can't you, and give 
 us an apple. Thanks. Nice girl!" and he gazed at her with 
 mischievous eyes. 
 
 "Robert John, you know something!" she cried. 
 
 "Yes'm, I hope so, " he said meekly. "When my papa sent 
 me to Cornell, he" — 
 
 "Stop teasing, and tell me why you look so mysterious," she 
 interrupted. 
 
 "Guess!" said he, beginning on his third apple. 
 
 ' 'A letter? Give it to me. ' ' 
 
 "Nary, nary letter! Try again." 
 
 "Caramels?" 
 
 "Greedy little girl! No, not caramels; something much bet- 
 ter. What '11 you give me to tell?" 
 
 But her quick eyes had seen a boat pulling in, and now two 
 men were lifting from it what looked like a large, flat box or 
 crate. 
 
 "Not one thing!" she cried, jumping up. "Here it comes! 
 Bob, I shall"— 
 
 "Spin, I imagine," said Bob. "Bring it up here, will you, 
 please?" — this last to the men who were crossing the lawn. 
 
 When the three men had hastily knocked the crate off and a 
 girl's wheel appeared, Betty was radiant. 
 
 "O Bob! Bob!" she cried. Is it really for me? Did father 
 buy it?" 
 
 "Yes, it's for you," said Bob. "I don't ride this kind. And 
 father didn't buy it — ^look here, you crazy child!" And he turned 
 a card which was tied to the handle-bar, so that she could read: 
 "For Miss Betty Jennings, with the love of Howard Knight 
 Eliot, Jr." 
 
 "Howard Junior must be the rescued infant," replied Bob, 
 "I tell you, though, Betty, you're in luck! It's the best wheel 
 made. I'm proud to be your brother. Miss Jennings. Come to 
 my arms!" 
 
BETTY. 175 
 
 When he had freed himself from her ecstatic hug, he held her 
 off at arm's length and said, with mock solemnity: 
 
 "Elizabeth, look me in the eye and don't fib. Did you— steady 
 now!— did you push him in?" 
 
Selection from Hypatia, 
 
 By CHARLES KINGSI.EY. 
 
 (13) 
 
Selection from Hypatia. 
 
 (Hypatia, a beautiful woman and teacher of pagan philosophy, 
 is greatly beloved by all her students. But she is feared and 
 hated by a certain body of monks, a set of fanatics, who have 
 resolved to slay her. Philammon, a young monk, who loves 
 Hypatia for her beauty and goodness, determines to warn her of 
 this plot and if possible to save her life. He is denied admission 
 
 to her, but begs Raphael, a friend of Hypatia' s, to warn her.) 
 
 ******** 
 
 * 'Go back and warn her ! Oh, if you ever cared for her— if 
 you ever felt for her a thousandth part of what I feel— go in 
 and warn her not to stir from home!" 
 
 *'0f what is she to be warned?" 
 
 "Of a plot against her among the monks and Parabolani. I 
 know the hatred which they bear her, the crimes which they at- 
 tribute to her. Will you take my message, or see her?" 
 
 Raphael hurried back into the house. 'Could he see Hypatia?' 
 She had shut herself up in her private room, strictly command- 
 ing that no visitor should be admitted. He bribed a maid to 
 take a message upstairs. At last the answer came down, in the 
 old graceful, studied, self-conscious handwriting. 
 
 ' 'I thank you, but I dread nothing. They will not dare. Fear 
 not for me. I must follow my destiny. I must speak the words 
 which I have to speak. Above all, I must let no Christian say 
 that the philosopher dared less than the fanatic. If my Gods 
 are Gods, then they will protect me: and if not, let your God 
 prove His rule as seems to Him good. " 
 
 Raphael tore the letter to fragments. It wanted half an hour 
 of the time of her lecture, and turning suddenly, he darted out 
 of the room and out of the house. 
 
 "Stay here and stop her!" cried he to Philammon — "make a 
 last appeal! Drag the horses' heads down, if you can! I will 
 be back in ten minutes. " And he ran off for the nearest gate 
 of the Museum gardens. It was fast, and barricaded firmly on 
 the outside. Terrified, he ran on to the next; it was barred also. 
 He beat upon it; but no one answered. He rushed on and tried 
 
180 SELECTION FROM HYPATIA. 
 
 another. No one answered there. He was baffled, netted; 
 there was a spell upon him. What was that roar below? A sea 
 of weltering, yelling heads, thousands on thousands, down to the 
 very beach; and from their innumerable throats one mighty war- 
 cry. 
 
 Philammon saw Raphael rush across the street into the 
 Museum gardens. His last words had been a command to stay 
 where he was; and the boy obeyed him. There Philammon 
 awaited a full half-hour. It seemed to him, days, years. What 
 meant that black knot of men some two hundred yards off, hang- 
 ing about the mouth of the side street, just opposite the door 
 which led to her lecture-room? And yet, why should there not 
 be a knot of monks there? What more common in every street 
 of Alexandria? He tried to laugh away his own fears. More 
 than once he looked out from his hiding-place — the knot of men 
 were still there. If they found him, what would they not sus- 
 pect? What did he care? He would die for her, if it came to 
 that. 
 
 The sun rose higher and higher, and turned his whole blaze 
 upon the corner where Philammon crouched, but he never heeded 
 it. His whole heart, and sense, and sight, were riveted upon 
 that well-known door, expecting it to open. At last a curricle, 
 glittering with silver, rattled round the corner and stopped oppo- 
 site him. She must be coming now. The crowd had vanished. 
 No; there they were, peeping round the corner, close to the lec- 
 ture-room — the hell-hounds! A slave brought out an embroi- 
 dered cushion — and then Hypatia herself came forth, looking 
 more glorious than ever; her lips set in a sad, firm smile; her 
 eyes uplifted, as if her soul was far away aloft and face to face 
 with God. 
 
 In a moment he sprang up to her, caught her robe convulsive- 
 ly, threw himself on his knees before her— 
 
 "Stop! Stay! You are going to destruction!" 
 
 Calmly she looked down upon him. 
 
 ''Would you make of Theon's daughter a traitor like your- 
 self?" 
 
 He sprang up, stepped back, and stood stupefied with shame 
 and despair. 
 
 The plumes of the horses were waving far down the street be- 
 fore he recovered himself and rushed after her, shouting he 
 knew not what. 
 
SELECTION FROM HYPATIA. 181 
 
 It was too late! A dark wave of men rushed from the ambus- 
 cade, surged up round the car * * * swept forward * * * 
 she had disappeared! and as Philammon followed breathless, the 
 horses galloped past him madly homeward with the empty car- 
 riage. 
 
 Whither were they dragging her? To the Caesareium, the 
 Church of God Himself! Impossible! Why thither of all places 
 of the earth? 
 
 She was upon the church steps before he caught them up, in- 
 visible among the crowd; but he could track her by the frag- 
 ments of her dress. Cowards! he would save her! And he 
 struggled in vain to pierce the dense mass of Parabolani and 
 monks who leaped and yelled around their victim. 
 
 Yes. On into the church itself! Into the cool, dim shadow, 
 with its fretted pillars, and lowering domes, and candles, and 
 Incense, and blazing altar, and great pictures looking from the 
 walls athwart the gorgeous gloom. And right in front, above 
 the altar, the colossal Christ watching unmoved from off the 
 wall, His right hand raised to give a blessing — or a curse? 
 
 On, up the nave, fresh shreds of her dress strewing the holy 
 pavement — up the chancel steps themselves— up to the altar — 
 right underneath the great still Christ: and there even those 
 hell-hounds paused. 
 
 She shook herself free from her tormentors, and springing 
 back, rose for one moment to her full height, naked, snow-white 
 against the dusky mass around— shame and indignation in those 
 wide, clear eyes, but not a stain of fear. With one hand she 
 clasped her golden locks around her; the other long white arm 
 was stretched upward toward the great still Christ appealing — 
 and who dare say, in vain? — from man to God. Her lips were 
 opened to speak : but the words that should have come from 
 them reached God's ear alone; for in an instant Peter struck her 
 down, the dark mass closed over her again * * and then wail 
 on wail, long, wild, ear-piercing, rang along the vaulted roofs 
 and thrilled like the trumpet of avenging angels through 
 Philammon's ears. 
 
 Crushed against a pillar, unable to move in the dense mass, 
 Philammon pressed his hands over his ears. He could not shut 
 out those shrieks! When would they end? What in the name 
 of the God of mercy were they doing? Tearing her piecemeal? 
 
182 SELECTION FROM HYPATIA. 
 
 Yes, and worse than that. And still the shrieks rang on, and 
 still the great Christ looked down on Philammon with that calm, 
 intolerable eye, and would not turn away. And over his head 
 was written in the rainbow, 'I am the same, yesterday, to-day, 
 and forever. ' Philammon covered his face with his hands and 
 longed to die. 
 
 It was over. The shrieks had died away into moans; the 
 moans to silence. How long had he been there? An hour, or 
 an eternity? Thank God it was over! For her sake — but for 
 theirs? But they thought not of that as a new cry rose through 
 the dome. 
 
 *'To the Cinaron! Burn the bones to ashes! Scatter them 
 into the sea!" And the mob poured past him agahi * * * 
 
 He turned to flee: but once outside the church he sank ex- 
 hausted and lay upon the steps, watching with stupid horror the 
 glaring of the fire and the mob who leaped and yelled like 
 demons round their Moloch sacrifice. 
 
 A hand grasped his arm; he looked up; it was Eudaemon the 
 porter. 
 
 *'I did what I could to die with her!" said he. 
 
 "I did what I could to save her!" answered Philammon. 
 
 "She is with the Gods," said Eudaemon at last. 
 
 "No," answered Philammon, "she is with the God of Gods." 
 
Selection from Lucile, 
 
 By Owen Merkdith. 
 
Selection from Lucile. 
 
 EUGENE DE LUVOIS. 
 "Holy Sister! Your worth is well known 
 To the hearts of our soldiers; nor less to my own. 
 I have much wished to see you. I owe you some thanks; 
 In the name of all those you have saved to our ranks 
 I record them. Now then, your mission? 
 
 (Aside) Strange! strange! 
 Any face should so strongly remind me of herl 
 Fool! again the delirium, the dream! does it stir? 
 Does it move as of old? Psha! 
 
 Sister! I wait 
 Your answer, my time halts but hurriedly. State 
 The cause why you seek me." 
 
 SOEUR SERAPHINE. 
 * 'Eugene de Luvois, 
 The cause which recalls me again to your side, 
 Is a promise that rests unfulfill'd. 
 1 come to fulfill it. " 
 
 EUGENE DE LUVOIS. 
 "Lucile? 
 Thus we meet then? * * here? * * thus?" 
 
 SOEUR SERAPHINE. 
 "Soul to soul, ay, Eugene, 
 As I pledged you my word that we should meet again. 
 Dead, long dead! all that 
 Lived in our lives. 
 'Tis my soul seeks thine own. 
 To thy soul I would speak. 
 May I do so?" 
 
 EUGENE DE LUVOIS. 
 "Speak to me!" 
 
186 SELECTION FROM LUCILE. 
 
 SOEUR SERAPHINE. 
 "I come from the solemn bedside 
 Of a man that is dying. While we speak 
 A life is in jeopardy." 
 
 EUGENE DE LUVOIS. 
 "Quick then! you seek 
 Aid or medicine, or what?" 
 
 SOEUR SERAPHINE. 
 "Medicine? yes, for the mind! 'Tis a heart that needs aid! 
 You, Eugene de Luvois, you (and you only) can 
 Save the life of this man. Will you save it?" 
 
 EUGENE DE LUVOIS. 
 What man? 
 How? * * Where? * * Can you ask?" 
 
 SOEUR SERAPHINE. 
 * 'The young son 
 Of Matilda and Alfred." 
 
 EUGENE DE LUVOIS. 
 
 Hold! forbear! 
 'Tis to him, then, 
 That I owe these late greetings — for him you are here— 
 For his sake you seek me— for him, it is clear, 
 You have deign' d at the last to bethink you again 
 Of this long-forgotten existence!" 
 
 SOEUR SERAPHINE. 
 "Eugene!" 
 
 EUGENE DE LUVOIS. 
 
 "Ha! fool that I was! and just now. 
 While you spoke yet, my heart was beginning to grow 
 Almost boyish again, almost sure of one friend! 
 Yet this was the meaning of all— this the end ! 
 Be it so! There's a sort of slow justice (admit!) 
 In this — that the word that man's finger hath writ 
 In fire on my heart, I return him at last. 
 Let him learn that word— Never!" 
 
SELECTION FROM LUCILE. 187 
 
 SOEUR SERAPHINE. 
 "Ah, still to the past 
 Must the present be vassal? In the hour 
 We last parted I urged you to put forth the power 
 Which I felt to be yours, in the conquest of life. 
 Yours, the promise to strive, mine— to watch o'er the strife. 
 I foresaw you would conquer; you have conquer 'd much, 
 Much, indeed, that is noble! I hail it as such. 
 And am here to record and applaud it. I saw 
 Not the less in your nature, Eugene de Luvois, 
 One peril— one point where I feared you would fail 
 To subdue that worst foe which a man can assail, — 
 Himself: and I promised that, if I should see 
 My champion once falter, or bend the brave knee 
 That m )m3at is cd.tib! for bha: paril ^vas prii3, 
 And you falter. I pleai, soldier of Fran23, 
 For your own nobler nature— and plead for Constance!" 
 EUGENE DE LUVOIS. 
 "Constance! * * Ay, she entered my lone life 
 When its sun was long set; and hung over its night 
 Her own starry childhood. I have but that light. 
 In the midst of much darkeess. ' ' 
 
 SOEUR SERAPHINE. 
 The sun 
 Is descending, life fleets while we talk thus! oh yet 
 Let this day upon one final victory set. 
 And complete a life's conquest!" 
 
 EUGENE DE LUVOIS. 
 "Understand! 
 If Constance wed the son of this man, by whose hand 
 My heart hath been robb'd, she is lost to my life! 
 
 Constance wed a Vargrave! — I cannot consent!" 
 
 SOEUR SERAPHINE. 
 "Eugene de Luvois, but for you, 
 I might have been now— not this wandering nun, 
 But a mother, a wife — pleading, not for the son 
 Of another, but blessing some child of my own. 
 His,— the man's that I once loved. * * Hush! that which is 
 done 
 
188 SELECTION PROM LUCILE. 
 
 I regret not. I breathe no reproaches. That's best 
 Which God sends. 'Twas his will: it is mine. 
 
 And the rest 
 Of that riddle I will not look back to. He reads 
 In your heart — He that judges of all thoughts and deeds. 
 With eyes, mine forestall not! This only I say: 
 You have not the right (read it, you, as you may!) 
 To say * * 'I am the wrong'd.' " 
 
 EUGENE DE LUVOIS. 
 "Have I wrong'd thee? wrong'd thee? 
 Lucile, ah, Lucile!" 
 
 SOEUR SERAPHINE. 
 * 'Nay, not me. 
 But man! The lone nun standing here 
 Has no claim upon earth, and is passed from the sphere 
 Of earth's wrongs and earth's reparations. But she, 
 The dead woman, Lucile, she whose grave is in me, 
 Demands from her grave reparation to man, 
 Reparation to God. Heed, heed, while you can, 
 This voice from the grave!" 
 
 EUGENE DE LUVOIS. 
 *'Hush, I obey 
 The Soeur Seraphine. There, Lucile, let this pay 
 Every debt that is due to that grave. Now lead on: 
 I follow you, Soeur Seraphine! * * * To the son 
 Of Lord Alfred Vargrave. This pays all. * * * Lead on! 
 I follow * * * forth, forth! where you lead." 
 
At A Broadway Fire. 
 
 By Alfrkd Trumble. 
 
 with the permission of the editors of THE) ARGONAUT, San Francisco, Cal. 
 Printed in the February Argonaut, 1888. 
 
At a Broadway Fire. 
 
 KLANG-KLANG ! Klang-klang-klang ! Klang ! 
 Over Broadway, packed with vehicles from curb to 
 curb, comes a sudden, startled hush. Then the trucks and 
 wagons and coaches scatter, the street-cars come to a stop, and 
 the curb is lined with a wall of men and women with excited 
 faces and eager eyes turned upon the roadway. 
 
 Klang-klang! 
 
 The two horses have their heads up and their eyes ablaze, like 
 chargers going into battle. They beat a long train of sparks 
 out of the frozen stones that mingle with a shower of embers 
 that leaves a fiery trail along the pavement. The driver, strap- 
 ped fast in his seat, is as firm and strong as the thing of steel 
 and gleaming brass he directs. 
 
 Klang! 
 
 The gong comes to us through the cloud of black smoke the 
 engine has coughed into our faces. There is a strange tremor 
 in the air, and the earth shakes beneath our feet. 
 
 Klang-klang-klang! 
 
 It has whirled around the corner and passed us like a tempest; 
 a long truck, loaded with ladders; again horses that gallop, and 
 blow spume from their proud jaws like a challenge of battle; 
 again a driver who might be made of steel, but also men who 
 hang on here and there. The whole episode has come and gone 
 so quickly that your head turns in the whirlwind its reverberat- 
 ing passage creates, and when the pretty girl in the silk raglan 
 beside you clutches your arm, you quite feel for her as you bid 
 her have no fear. 
 
 ''It's not that," says the pretty girl, "but it makes my head 
 swim. My! What was that?" 
 
 It looked like a red streak in the air. It was the crimson- 
 bodied buggy of the fire chief tearing by, with the bay horse at 
 a dead run and every muscle in his clean body working like an 
 electrical engine. 
 
 The clangor of the gongs is now incessant. The street is a 
 blockade. The police are marking out the fire lines, and the 
 
192 AT A BROADWAY FIRE 
 
 mob presses them hard. A black fog hangs over the street. 
 Out of the window of a big iron building flips a slender and 
 vicious-looking tongue of flame. A roar breaks from the crowd, 
 and the engines commence to hammer and thump, like giants in 
 bondage striving to rend their chains. A white streak cuts the 
 smoke-fog, like a long steel blade, and the crowd yells "Hur- 
 rah!'* 
 
 As if the first touch of water maddened it, the fire bursts 
 from a dozen windows, blowing a shower of broken glass before 
 it. The air above the housetop begins to redden. The windows 
 of adjoining houses take on a sullen and angry color, such as 
 one may note at night in the eyes of a wild beast crouching in 
 its cage. There is a heavy crash, and an eruption of fire spouts 
 above the housetop and fans a cloud of sparks high into the air. 
 The roof has been blown apart. The crowd catches its breath 
 and says "Ah!" 
 
 Against the roaring blaze black figures are silhouetted, perch- 
 ed upon adjoining walls. One man, standing on the metal cor- 
 nice, wields an axe with great, strong strokes. A stealthy 
 streak of flame slinks up toward his feet, withdraws, slinks up 
 again, and once more draws back. The axe falls steadily. In 
 an instant there is a big, coiling leap of fire at him, the cornice 
 crumbles under his feet like paper — and strong arms are haul- 
 ing him HP to safety, while he still clutches the axe. 
 
 A plump elderly gentleman, who has been forgetting all about 
 his bank, where the board meeting is waiting for its president, 
 throws up his hand and shouts "Hurrah!" The mob repeats the 
 cry in a wild, gusty roar. The engines seem to take it up with 
 their whir and clatter lost in smoke, and even the crash of the 
 falling cornice is almost lost in it. While it is still lingering 
 among the noises of the scene, a shout of laughter buries it. 
 The crowd opens into a circle, in the middle of which a bursted 
 hose spouts a fountain of freezing water in half a dozen jets. 
 No one has noticed how cold it is until now, yet the icicles hang 
 in huge festoons among the flames and the spray of the mount- 
 ing streams of water falls like hail. 
 
 "My!" says the pretty girl in the silk raglan, "I pity those 
 poor fellows." 
 
 An excited young man comes running up and dodges under the 
 policeman's warning arm. Before the menacing club can fall, 
 
AT A BROADWAY FIRE. 193 
 
 he shows, under the lapel of his coat, an embossed metal badge, 
 at sight of which the officer lowers his staff, grumbling some- 
 thing to the effect that "you'se fellows is nuisances." Other 
 reporters come up and plunge into the smoke. So do men who 
 do not look like reporters, but who wear the same badges. 
 Most of these the policeman salutes with great respect. 
 " 'Tis a good fire, Mr. Moloney," says he. 
 ''Well, Dennis," responds Mr. Maloney affably, out of his 
 frieze ulster, "it's a good day for a good fire. " 
 
 The crowd snickers at this original ebullition of Celtic wit, 
 and you learn from your neighbor that this is the famous Mickey 
 Moloney who is supposed to carry the whole Fourth Ward in his 
 trousers' pocket. Mr. Moloney, who has no badge, or, at least 
 shows none, marches unchallenged into the gloom, and the 
 policeman wrangles for five minutes with a nervous little 
 Tribune reporter, fresh from a country college, with a brand- 
 new silver badge, who carries a note-book and pencil, and who 
 gets so excited that he commences to cry, whereupon he is com- 
 manded to go in and drown the fire out, which order he proceeds, 
 in part, at least, to obey, amid the jeers of the mob. 
 
 The engines are now fighting a wall of fire. The air is heavy 
 with cinders, which sting our faces as they drive before the 
 bitter blast. In the flooded streets you can see the ice growing 
 in films. The bar-room, at our elbow, drives a tremendous 
 trade. The counter is lined two deep. A fireman, who comes 
 in dripping, with scales of ice all over his woolen shirt, and 
 bleeding from a cut in his head, is immediately surrounded. If 
 he had the capacity of a cask it might be taxed free of expense 
 to himself. 
 
 "I'm obliged, gents," he says; "all I want is some whiskey 
 and some hot bullyon. " 
 
 When he gets these, he calmly drinks the bouillon and washes 
 his wound with the spirits, and is off before the bibulous rabble 
 has recovered from the shock. 
 
 Now we are in for it. Every breath is an effort. Our bodies 
 freeze and our faces scorch. Smoke, smell, the tumult of clank- 
 ing machinery, and the furious growling of the unseen confla- 
 gration put an embargo on words. The shouts we hear are dim 
 and incoherent, as commands issued on the quarter-deck in a 
 hurricane. The face§ that flit by us are black, as with battle- 
 
 (14) 
 
194 AT A BROADWAY FIRE. 
 
 g) ime, and full of the frenzied excitement that marks those of 
 soldiers in a charge. It only needs a charge of artillery to com- 
 plete the illusion, and— 
 
 A wall down ! 
 
 For a brief moment the windy eddy from the crashing stone 
 and metal rips the fog apart. Then we see a man going up a 
 ladder to a window within which the fire is seething with an aw- 
 ful splendor. 
 
 "Some one in there?" 
 
 "Yes, " says the engineer. 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "Can't you see the cat on the window ledge?" 
 
 Then the cloud closes in again, but we know by the mad accla- 
 mation of the invisible audience that poor puss is saved. 
 
 We tread a pavement inches deep in cinders, and strewn with 
 broken bricks and fragments of stone. The pla'e-glass windows 
 behind us split in the heat, with reports like pistol shots. 
 
 There is a tangle of telegraph wires all around in the gutters. 
 A fiery snake hisses at our feet and a new commotion breaks 
 out. The electric light wires are down, with white death spit- 
 ting from their severed strands. The smoke-bank grows red- 
 der and commences to billow wavily, and then, with a roar like 
 breakers bursting on a rocky shore, a great, hot blast blows the 
 curtain away, and we save ourselves in a doorway, just in time 
 to escape the avalanche of falling walls, which leave exposed a 
 crater belching flame, sparks and steam. 
 
 The murky pall settles again, slowly and sullenly. The noises 
 have taken a new aspect, and we hear voices shouting com- 
 mands and the sounds of pick and shovel. 
 
 Klang-klang-klang-klang! 
 
 There is a sharper, keener and more nervous note to this gong 
 than to the warning peal of the engine. The rattle of wheels is 
 lighter, too. It is the ambulance that pulls up among the steam- 
 ing ruins, where something is buried that moans and groans 
 with human eloquence of misery, yet presents none of the sem- 
 blance of a human being. 
 
 Yes, I think it is about time we kept that appointment down 
 town. 
 
His Mother's Sermon. 
 
 By IAN MACLAREN. 
 
 By Permission of Dodd, Mead & Co., Publishers. 
 
His Mother's Sermon. 
 
 HE was an ingenious lad, with the callow simplicity of a the- 
 ological college still untouched, and had arrived on the 
 preceding Monday at the Free Kirk manse with four 
 cartloads of furniture and a maiden aunt. At last he shut him- 
 self up in his study to prepare the great sermon, and his aunt 
 went about on tiptoe. 
 
 He explained casually that his own wish was to preach a sim- 
 ple sermon, and that he would have done so had he been a pri- 
 vate individual, but as he had held the MacWhammel scholar- 
 ship, a great deliverance was expected by the country. 
 
 While the minister was speaking in his boyish complacency, 
 aunt's thoughts were in a room where they had both stood, five 
 years before, by the death-bed of his mother. 
 
 He was broken that day, and his sobs shook the bed, for he 
 was his mother's only son and fatherless, and his mother, brave 
 and faithful to the last, was bidding him farewell. 
 
 "Dinna greet like that, John, nor break yir hert, for it's the 
 will o' God, and that's aye best. Ye 'ill no forget me, John, I 
 ken that weel, and I'll never forget you. I've loved ye here 
 and I'll love ye yonder. Ye 'ill follow Christ, an' gin He offers 
 ye His cross ye'U no refuse it, for He aye carries the heavy end 
 Himsel'. He 'ill keep ye too, and, John, I've just one other 
 wish. If God calls ye to the ministry, ye 'ill no refuse, an' the 
 first day ye preach in yir ain kirk, speak a gude word for Jesus 
 Christ, an', John, I'll hear ye that day, though ye'ill no see me, 
 and I'll be satisfied." A minute after she whispered, 'Tray for 
 me," and he cried, ''Mother, my mother." 
 
 It was a full prayer, and left nothing unasked of Mary's Son. 
 
 "John," said his aunt, "your mother is with the Lord," and 
 he saw death for the first time, but it was beautiful with the 
 peace that passeth all understanding. 
 
 Five years had passed, crowded with thought and work, and 
 his aunt wondered whether he remembered that last request, or 
 indeed had heard it in his sorrow. 
 
198 HIS mother's sermon. 
 
 **What are you thinking about, aunt? Are you afraid of my 
 theology?" 
 
 **No, John, it's not that, laddie." 
 
 "Go on, auutie, go on," he said. "Say all that's in yir mind. " 
 
 "It's no for me tae advise ye, who am only a simple auld 
 woman. But it's the fouk, John, a'm anxious aboot, the flock 
 o' sheep the Lord has given ye tae feed for Him. Ye maun 
 mind, laddie, that they're no clever and learned like ye are, but 
 juist plain country foulk. They 'ill need a clear word tae com- 
 fort their herts and show them the way everlasting. Ye 'ill say 
 what's richt, nae doot o' that, and a'body 'ill be pleased wi' ye, 
 but, oh, laddie, be sure ye say a gude word for Jesus Christ." 
 
 The minister's face whitened, and his arm relaxed. He rose 
 hastily and went to the door. The son had not forgotten his 
 mother's request. 
 
 The manse garden lies toward the west and the sun was going 
 down behind the Grampians. Black, massy clouds had begun to 
 gather in the evening, and threatened to obscure the sunset. 
 But the sun had beat back the clouds on either side, and shot 
 them through with glory. The minister stood still before that 
 spectacle, his face bathed in golden glory, and then before his 
 eyes the gold deepened into an awful red, and the red passed 
 into shades of violet and green. It seemed to him as if a victo- 
 rious saint had entered through the gates into the city, washed 
 in the blood of the Lamb, and the after-glow of his mother's 
 life fell solemnly on his soul. The last trace of sunset had 
 faded from the hills when the minister came in, and his face 
 was of one who had seen a vision. 
 
 He looked at the sermon shining beneath the glare of the 
 lamp and demanding judgment. He had finished its last page 
 with honest pride that afternoon, and had declaimed it, facing 
 the southern window, with a success that amazed himself. But 
 now he felt that he could never deliver it again, for the audi- 
 ence had vanished, and left one careworn, but ever beautiful 
 face, whose gentle eyes were waiting with a yearning look. 
 Twice he crushed the sermon in his hands, and turned to the 
 fire. What else could he say now to the people? And then in 
 the stillness of the room he heard a voice, "Speak a gude word 
 for Jesus Christ. " 
 
 Next minute he was kneeling on the hearth and pressing the 
 
HIS mother's sermon. 199 
 
 magnum opus, that was to shake Drumtochty, into the heart of 
 the red fire. As the last black flake fluttered out of sight, the 
 face looked at him again, but this time the sweet brown eyes 
 were full of peace. 
 
 The moon flooded his bedroom with silver light, and he felt 
 the presence of his mother. He is a boy once more, and repeats 
 the Lord's Prayer, then he cries again, "My mother! my 
 mother!" and an indescribable contentment fills his heart. 
 
 When the bell began to ring, the minister rose from his knees 
 and went to his aunt's room to be robed, for this was a covenant 
 between them. When she had given the last touch, and he was 
 ready to go, a sudden seriousness fell upon them. 
 
 "Kiss me, auntie." 
 
 "For your mother, and her God be with you," and then he 
 went through the garden and underneath the honeysuckle and 
 into the kirk, where every Free Churchman in Drumtochty that 
 could get out of bed, and half the Established Kirk, were wait- 
 ing in expectation. 
 
 I sat with his aunt in the minister's pew, and shall always be 
 glad that I was at that service. I have been in Mr. Spur- 
 geon's Tabernacle, where the people wept one minute and 
 laughed the next; have heard Canon Liddon in St. Paul's, and 
 the sound of that high, clear voice is still with me. But I never 
 realized the unseen world as I did that day in the Free Kirk of 
 Drumtochty. 
 
 Texts I can never remember, nor, for that matter, the words 
 of sermons; but the subject was Jesus Christ, and before he had 
 spoken five minutes I was convinced that Christ was present. 
 The preacher faded before one's eyes, and there rose the figure 
 of the Nazarene, stretching out his hands to the old folks and 
 little children as He did, before his death in Galilee. His voice 
 might be heard any moment, as I have imagined it in my lonely 
 hours, by the winter fire, or on the solitary hills — soft, low and 
 sweet, penetrating like music to the secret of the heart, 
 "Come unto Me * * * and I will give you rest, " 
 
 During a pause in the sermon, I glanced up the church, and 
 saw the same spell held the people. The women were weeping 
 quietly, and the rugged faces of our men were subdued and soft- 
 ened, as when the evening sun plays on the granite stone. 
 
 His aunt could only meet him in the study, and when he look 
 
200 HIS mother's sermon. 
 
 ed on her his lip quivered, for his heart was wrung with one 
 wistful regret. 
 
 "Oh, auntie, if she had only been spared to see this day and 
 her prayers answered!" 
 
 But his aunt flung her arms around his neck. 
 
 "Dinna be cast doon, laddie, nor be unbelivin.' Yir mither 
 has heard every word, and is satisfied, for ye did it in remem- 
 brance o' her, and you was yir mither's sermon." 
 
The Old Garden. 
 
 By MARY CLARKE HUNTINGTON. 
 
 With the permission of Warren F. Kellogg-, Publisher of the New EJngland 
 Magazine. With the special permission of Mary Clarke Huntington. 
 
The Old Garden. 
 
 THIS is the garden where Grandmamma walked, 
 Grandmamma, witching and dark, and small. 
 This is the bench where she sat and talked 
 'Neath rosebine arbor beside the wall; 
 While somebody's horse at the garden gate 
 Neighed impatience at somebody's wait. 
 
 Here is the spot where the heart's-ease grew, 
 And bachelor's buttons there were set 
 With larkspur — crimson and white and blue, 
 And fragrant patches of mignonette. 
 Yonder were lilies; coxcomb red. 
 And velvety pansies— bed on bed! 
 
 In dress of muslin, as white as snow. 
 
 With the briefest waist and the scantest skirt. 
 
 She chatted with gallant powdered beau. 
 
 For Grandmamma was an arrant flirt. 
 
 I know by the letters I have read. 
 
 Letters from lovers she would not wed. 
 
 For one she scorned, and at one she laughed. 
 And one a bachelor's button gave, 
 And coxcomb handed to one who quaffed 
 Her smile till he vowed himself her slave! 
 And then she would send them all away 
 And walk by herself in the dying day. 
 
 But somebody came— as somebody will 
 When Youth and Beauty are still unwed. 
 And Grandmamma's saucy laugh was still 
 When this tall somebody bent his head 
 To her lesser height, as they slowly walked 
 Tween stiff box borders, or sat and talked; 
 
204 THE OLD GARDEN. 
 
 Sat and talked while the gloaming fell 
 And whinnies sounded beside the gate, 
 For when young Love has a tale to tell 
 Then somebody's horse perforce must wait: 
 And a heart's-ease sprig on somebody's vest 
 She pinned — but I will not tell the rest. 
 
 Rose petals drop on my head to-day, 
 As they dropped on those lovers' heads of yore; 
 And down the path, where the shadows play, 
 I fancy coming from open door 
 Grandmamma — such a charming bride! 
 With courtly Grandpapa at her side. 
 
 Tho' dead those lovers of long ago. 
 
 Dead tender bridegroom and winsome bride, 
 
 The garden's story will live, I trow, 
 
 Like scent of roses that Grandmamma dried- 
 
 A subtle sweetness, a rare perfume, 
 
 A bud of Arcady burst in bloom. 
 
Laddie. 
 
 With the permission of E. P. Dutton & Co., PubHshers. 
 
Laddie. 
 
 JOHN Clement Carter, M. D., had come to London a poor boy, 
 but his intelHgence and honesty had interested influential 
 people in him, and through his power and perseverance he 
 was now recognized as being at the head of his profession and 
 one of the foremost doctors in all London. 
 
 Life looked very pleasant to Dr. Carter as he sat in his beauti- 
 ful home, surrounded by every luxury. He had just become en- 
 gaged to Violet Meredith, a lovely and accomplished young latiy 
 and that night he was looking through rose-colored spectacles at 
 a successful past, a satisfactory present, and a beautiful future. 
 
 At length his thoughts carried him back to springtime many 
 years ago at Sunnybrook, and his mother— ah! she was always 
 such a good mother! He could remember still the comforting 
 feeling of mother's apron wiping away dirt and tears, and the 
 sound of her gentle voice bidding him "Never mind, like a good 
 little Laddie. ' ' His heart was very warm just then towards 
 that mother of his, and he made up his mind that, cost what 
 trouble it might, he would go down to Sunnybrook and see her 
 before he was married, if it were only for an hour or two. 
 
 His conscience pricked him a little, as he remembered how 
 year after year had slipped away without his going down. 
 ''Anyhow," he said to himself, * 'another month shall not pass 
 by without my seeing my mother. ' ' 
 
 At this moment the deferential man servant knocked at the 
 door and aroused Dr. Carter to the consciousness of how far his 
 wandering thoughts had carried him. 
 
 ''What is it, Hyder?" 
 
 "Please, sir, there's some one wishes to see you. I told as 
 'twas too late, and you was engaged very particular, but she 
 wouldn't be put off nohow, sir." 
 
 "What sort of a person is she?" 
 
 "Beg your pardon, sir, she appears to be from the country, 
 sir. Quite a countrified, homely old body, sir. ' ' 
 
 "Countrified, homely old body." Somehow the description 
 
208 LADDIE. 
 
 brought back to his mind his mother coming down the brick path 
 at home, with the columbine tapping against her short petti- 
 coats. Even as he smiled to himself, the door was pushed open, 
 and before him he saw — his mother, in her Sunday bonnet and 
 with her patterns in her hand. 
 
 For the first moment, pleasure was the uppermost feeling 
 in his mind. He just took hold of her trembling, hard-worked 
 hands, and kissed her furrowed old cheek, wet with tears of un- 
 utterable joy, and cried, "Mother! why, mother!" 
 
 She was clinging to him, sobbing out, "Laddie, my boy, Lad- 
 die!" with eyes too dim to notice how tall and grand and hand- 
 some her boy had grown and what a gentleman. 
 
 "I must have a good look at you. Laddie, boy," she said. 
 
 And then her good angel must have spread his soft wings be- 
 tween the mother and son to keep her from seeing the look that 
 was marring that son's face. All the pleasure was gone and em- 
 barrassment and disquiet had taken its place. 
 
 "Why didn't you write and say you were coming, mother?" 
 
 "Well, there! I thought as I'd give you a surprise, and you 
 see I'm not such a helpless old body arter all. Laddie." 
 
 "And when must you go back?" 
 
 "Not till you get tired of me, Laddie." 
 
 The sight of her white, trembling old face touched her son's 
 heart in spite of himself. "You are quite tired out, mother; 
 you shall have some tea and go to bed. " 
 
 "There, now! If I wasn't thinking as a dish of tea would be 
 the nicest thing in the world! Ah! you remembers what your 
 mother likes, bless you!" 
 
 Presently, when they had done tea. Dr. Carter drew his chair 
 up near hers and prepared for his difficult task. 
 
 "Mother," he said, "mother, I wish you had written to me 
 that you were coming. ' ' 
 
 "I knew as you would be pleased to see me. Laddie, come 
 when I might or how I might. " 
 
 And then he went on to explain how different London life was 
 from that of Sunnybrook, and how she would never get used to 
 it or feel happy there. How^ soon did she catch his meaning he 
 hardly knew, for he could not bear to look into her face, and see 
 the smile fade from her lips and the brightness from her eyes. 
 He only felt her hand clasp his more tightly, and then she said 
 slowly, 
 
LADDIE. 209 
 
 "I am aweary, Laddie, too tired like for new plans, — and may- 
 be, dearie, too old." 
 
 "Come, mother, think no more of it to-night, everything will 
 look brighter to-morrow. I'll show you your bedroom." And 
 he took her up-stairs. 
 
 **Now make haste to bed, there's a good old mother. My 
 room is next to yours, if you need anything. I hope you'll be 
 very comfortable. Good-night." 
 
 After he had left her, she stood for some minutes quite still, 
 looking at the scene reflected in the glass before her, peering 
 anxiously and attentively at it. 
 
 **And so Laddie is ashamed of his old mother, and it ain't no 
 wonder." 
 
 Dr. Carter was just turning over to sleep when his door opened 
 softly, and his mother came in. He started up. 
 
 "There, there. Laddie, lie down. 'Tis fifteen years and more 
 since I tucked you up in bed and I thought as I'd like to do it for 
 you once more. Good night, Laddie, good night. " 
 
 And then she went away quickly, and did not hear him call, 
 "Mother! O, mother!" after her, for the carefully tucked in 
 clothes were flung off, and Laddie was out of bed, with his hand 
 on the handle of the door and then— second thoughts being cooler, 
 if not better,— "she had better sleep," Dr. Carter said and got 
 back into bed. 
 
 But sleep would not come at his call, until after long and 
 fierce debate he came to the conclusion: "Come what may, I'll 
 keep my mother with me, let people say or think what they will. " 
 
 And then he went to sleep, while his old mother stood outside 
 his house, in the cold London street, murmuring: "I'll never 
 be a shame to my boy, my Laddie. God bless him!" 
 
 * * * it: * * * # 
 
 Eighteen months passed away, and though Dr. Carter had 
 made every effort, he could find no trace of his mother. 
 
 His wedding had been postponed, for Violet would say : "We 
 must find her first, Laddie, and then we'll talk of the wedding." 
 
 But time rolled on, days, weeks and months, till at last they 
 were forced to give up all hope. 
 
 One day, as Dr. Carter was passing through one of the hospi- 
 tals a bunch of violets fell from his coat upon a bed where death 
 was having an easy victory. The face of the patient was turned 
 
 (15) 
 
210 LADDIE. 
 
 toward the wall, and her wrinkled, hard-worked hands were 
 stretched outside the bed-clothes. 
 
 The nurse explained, "She's not been conscious since they 
 brought her in, knocked down by an omnibus. We don't know 
 her name, but I fancy she's Scotch, for I have heard her say 
 'Laddie' several times." 
 
 And then, all at once, the doctor gave a great cry that start- 
 led all the patients in the ward. 
 
 ''Mother!" he cried, "Mother, is it you?" Dr. Carter was 
 kneeling by the bed, looking eagerly at the wan, white face. 
 Was he mad? The nurse thought he must be, and this a sudden 
 frenzy. And then he called again — 
 
 "Mother, mother, speak to me!" 
 
 The drawn mouth moved into the ghost of a smile, and she 
 said, "Eh, Laddie, here I be." Then she sank back into uncon- 
 sciousness. 
 
 Dr. Carter wrote a note to Violet with these words: — "I have 
 found her; come!" As Violet entered, the old woman opened 
 her eyes, looking first at Laddie and then at her. 
 
 "Who is it?" she asked. 
 
 And then Violet knelt down with her sweet face close to the 
 old woman's, and said very softly, "Mother, I am Laddie's 
 sweetheart. ' ' 
 
 "Laddie's sweetheart," she echoed, "he's been a good son, 
 my dear, always kind to his old mother, and he'll make a good 
 husband. And you'll make him a good wife, won't you? God 
 bless you!" 
 
 And then her trembling hand was feeling for something, and 
 Laddie guessed her wish, and put his hand and Violet's into it, 
 two young hands full of life and health and pulsation under the 
 old worn, hard-worked hand, growing cold and weak with death. 
 
 "God bless you dear. Laddie and his sweetheart. But I'm a 
 bit tired just now. " And she dozed again. 
 
 It was Laddie, he who had often seen death face to face, who 
 gave way. "Oh, mother, mother, say you forgive me!" Did 
 he not know that she forgave, if indeed she knew that she had 
 aught to forgive. But she was "a bit tired. " 
 
 Very tenderly did the Angel of Death do his work that night. 
 Only a sigh and then, a sudden hush; for the night had come, 
 when no man can work— the holy, star-lit night of death, with 
 the silver streaks of the great dawn of the Resurrection shining 
 in the east. 
 
The Man Without a Country. 
 
 By EDWARD EVERETT HALE. 
 
 With the permission of the Publishers, Little, Brown, & Co.,'Boston. 
 
The Man Without a Countrv. 
 
 J 
 
 /^"^URSE the United States! I wish I may never hear of 
 ••V> the United States again!" 
 
 The speaker was Philip Nolan, ayoiing officer in the 
 United States army. He had been implicated in the Aaron Buri- 
 conspiracy and was being tried in court when }ie uttered these 
 words. 
 
 He never did hear her name but once again. From that mo- 
 ment, Sept. 23, 1807, till the day he died. May 11, 1863, he never 
 heard har name again. For that half century and more he was a 
 man without a country, for the sentence of the court was that he 
 should be taken on board of one of the boats of the United States 
 navy and transferred from boat to boat, so that he might spend 
 his life on the high seas and never land in the United States; nor 
 should he be allowed to see papers or books containing allusions 
 to the United Scates, nor holfi conversation with anyone regard- 
 ing his native country, though in all other respects he was to l)e 
 treated as a gentleman and ex-officer of the United States' navy. 
 
 As years wore on, poor Nolan deeply repented'his passionate 
 exclamation and was filled with an intense longing to know "of 
 the progress of his really beloved country, but all' such kriowT- 
 edge was denied him. 
 
 . I first came to understand anything about **the man Vithout^a 
 country" one day when we overhauled a dirty little schooner 
 which had slaves on board. There was no way of making these 
 negroes understand that they were now free, and the captain 
 was in despair. 
 
 "For God's love, is there anybody who can make these 
 wretches understand something?" 
 
 Nolan said he could speak Portuguese. 
 
 "Then tell them they are free," said Vaughan. Tell them 
 that I will take them all to Cape Palmas." But this did not 
 answer, and the drops stood on poor Nnlan'? white forehead, as 
 he hushed the men down, and said:— 
 
 "They say, 'Not Palmas. "Take us home, take us to our own 
 
214 THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY. 
 
 country. ' One says he has an old father and mother who will 
 die if they do not see him. And this one says," choked out 
 Nolan, "that he has not heard a word from his home in six 
 months." 
 
 But he could not stand it any longer; and getting Vaughan to 
 say he might go back, he beckoned me down into our boat. 
 Then he said to me: ** Youngster, let that show you what it is 
 to be without a family, without a home, and without a country. 
 And if you are ever tempted to say a word or to do a thing that 
 shall put a bar between you and your family, your home, and 
 your country, pray God in his mercy to take you that instant 
 home to his own heaven. Stick by your family, boy. And for 
 your country, boy, and for that flag, never dream a dream but 
 of serving her as she bids you, though the service carry you 
 through a thousand hells. Never let a night pass but you pray 
 God to bless that flag. Remember, boy, that behind all these 
 men you have to do with, there is the Country Herself, your 
 Country, and that you belong to Her as you belong to your own 
 mother. Stand by Her, boy, as you would stand by your 
 mother, if those devils there had got hold of her to-day!" 
 Then, almost in a whisper, he added, "0, if anybody had said 
 so to me when I was of your age!" 
 
 I think it was this half-confidence of his which afterward 
 made us great friends; but from this time on he grew weaker 
 and weaker, and it was at last painfully evident that he had but 
 a short time to live. One day he said to me:— 
 
 *'0 Danforth, I know I am dying. Surely you will tell me 
 something now? Stop! stop! Do not speak till I say what I am 
 sure you know, that there is not in this ship, that there is not in 
 America,— God bless her!— a more loyal man than I. There 
 cannot be a man who loves the old flag as I do, or prays for 
 it as I do, or hopes for it as I do. There are thirty-four stars 
 in it now, Danforth. I thank God for that, though I do not 
 know what their names are. There has never been one taken 
 away: I thank God for that. But tell me,— tell me some- 
 thing, — tell me everything, Danforth, before I die!" 
 
 "Mr. Nolan," said I, "I will tell you everything you ask 
 about. Only, where shall I begin?" 
 
 Oh, the blessed smile that crept over his white face! and he 
 pressed my hand and said, "God bless you! Tell me their 
 
THE MAN WITHOUT A COUNTRY. 215 
 
 names," he said, and he pointed to the stars on the flag. 
 
 I tell you it was a hard thing to condense the history of half a 
 century into that talk with a sick man, but I told him every- 
 thing I could think of. He grew more and more silent, yet I 
 never thought he was tired or faint. 
 
 Then he asked me to bring the Presbyterian 'Book of Public 
 Prayer' which lay there, and said, with a smile, that it would 
 open at the right place, — and so it did. And I knelt down and 
 read, and he repeated with me, ''For ourselves and cur country, 
 O gracious God, we thank Thee." 
 
 "Danforth, " said he, "I have repeated those prayers night 
 and morning, it is now fifty-five years." And then he said he 
 would go to sleep. He bent me down over him and kissed me; 
 and he said, "Look in my Bible, Danforth, when I am gone." 
 And I went away. 
 
 In an hour, when the doctor went in gently, he found Nolan 
 had breathed his life away with a smile. We looked in his 
 Bible, and there was a slip of paper at the place where he had 
 marked the text:— 
 
 "They desire a country, even a heavenly; wherefore God is 
 not ashamed to be called their God: for He hath prepared for 
 them a city." 
 
 On this slip of paper he had written: "Bury me in the sea; 
 it has been my home, and I love it. But will not some one set 
 up a stone for my memory, that my disgrace may not be more 
 than I ought to bear? Say on it: — 
 
 In Memory of 
 
 PHILIP NOLAN 
 
 Lieutenant in the Army of the United States. 
 
 He loved his country as no other man 
 has loved her; but no man deserved less 
 at her hands. ' ' 
 
Westward Ho. 
 
 By CHARLES KINGSLEY. 
 
 With the permission of Geo. Routledge Sons. 
 
Westward Ho. 
 
 IT was in the year 1588. Amyas Leigh's brother had been put 
 to the Inquisition by the Spaniards and finally burned to 
 death at the stake, and when the tidings were brought to 
 Amyas Leigh, at his English home, his whole soul was filled 
 with a fierce longing for revenge. He patiently bided his time, 
 knowing that before long Spain and England would be engaged 
 in a bitter conflict. As he and his mother were talking one 
 evening, Amyas burst out: 
 
 "The one thing I live for is hunting down Spaniards as I would 
 adders or foxes. If it were not for you, mother, would God 
 that the Armada would come! There is a fire burning me up, 
 night and day, and nothing but Spanish blood will put it out," 
 
 "Or the grace of God, my poor wilful child! Who comes to 
 the door,— so quickly, too?" 
 
 In another minute a serving-man entered with a letter. 
 
 "This to Capt. Amyas Leigh, with haste, haste!" 
 
 Amyas tore it open. "The Armada is coming! My wish has 
 come true, mother!" 
 
 "God help us, it has! Go, my son, and may God bless you!" 
 
 And then began that great sea-fight which was to determine 
 
 whether Popery or Protestantism should rule. 
 
 ******** 
 
 The fight is over and the great Armada vanquished. The re- 
 maining Spanish ships have fled and Amyas is following in close 
 pursuit of the ship which Don Guzman, the Spaniard who took 
 his brother's life, is commanding. It is now the sixteenth day 
 of the chase. 
 
 The morning wore away without a sign of living thing. Was 
 he to lose his prey after all? The thought made him shudder 
 with rage and disappointment. It was intolerable; anything but 
 that. 
 
 "No, God! let me but once feel this sword in his accursed 
 heart, and then— strike me dead, if Thou wilt!" Then he looked 
 across the sea and shouted: "There she is," and in an instant 
 all were scrambling up the hatchway. 
 
220 ^ WESTWARD HO. 
 
 Yes. There she was! The cloud had lifted suddenly and there 
 she lay rolling, some four or five miles to the eastward. 
 
 "The Spaniard is ours safely now. Safe as a fox in a trap. 
 Satan himself cannot take him from us. " As Amyas spoke, an 
 angry growl of thunder from the westward heaven seemed to 
 answer his wild words. 
 
 "The storm is coming, and the wind is in it, " he cried. 
 
 After two hours more, the four miles diminished to one, while 
 the lightning flashed nearer and nearer as the storm came up. 
 The squall blew fiercer and fiercer, and the rain came down in 
 blinding sheets. Where was the Spaniard? 
 
 "Hurrah! there she is, right on our larboard bow." There 
 she was, indeed, staggering away with canvas split and flying. 
 
 "Range alongside," shouted Amyas, "if it blow live imps and 
 witches. Pah! how this lightning dazzles." On they swept, 
 gaining fast on the Spaniard. Suddenly, one of the men sprang 
 back with a face white and wild. 
 
 "Land, right ahead! Port your helm, sir, for the love of God! 
 port your helm. ' ' 
 
 Amyas, with the strength of a bull, jammed the helm down 
 just in time. She swung round; the masts bent like whips. 
 Within two hundred yards of them was the Spaniard, while in 
 front* of her and above her rose a huge dark bank. The 
 Spaniard had seen her danger, and tried to broach-to. But her 
 clumsy mass refused to obey the helm. The Spaniard gave a 
 sudden jar and stopped. Then one long heave and bound, as if 
 to free herself; and then her bows lighted clean upon the 
 shutter. 
 
 An awful silence fell on every English soul. They heard not 
 the roaring of wind and surge; they saw not the blinding flashes 
 of the lightning; but they heard one long ear-piercing wail to 
 every saint in heaven rise from five hundred human throats; 
 they saw the mighty ship heel over from the wind, till she rolled 
 clear over, and vanished forever and ever. 
 
 "Lost! lost! lost!— shame! To lose my right, my right, when 
 it was in my very grasp. Unmerciful!" 
 
 A crack which rent the sky and made the granite quiver: a 
 bright world of flame, and then a blank of utter darkness, 
 against which stood out, glowing red-hot, every mast, and sail, 
 and rock, all red-hot, transfigured into fire; and behind, the 
 
WESTWARD HO. 221 
 
 black, black night. When Amyas regained consciousness, he 
 heard a whisper and rustling close beside him. 
 
 "What is this? I must be asleep — what has happened? 
 Where am I? And where is Yeo?" 
 
 "The same flash which struck you down, struck him dead." 
 
 "Dead? Lightning? Any more hurt? I must go and see. 
 Why, what is this? It is all dark— dark, as I live! Oh, God! 
 Oh. God! I am blind, blind, blind!" 
 
 For four days he raved constantly; then his raving ceased and 
 a deep sigh escaped from him. 
 
 "I know it is all here— the dear old sea— where 1 would live 
 and die. And my eyes feel for it! feel for it — and cannot find 
 it; never, never will find it again forever. God's will be done! 
 I have been a fiend, when I thought myself the grandest of 
 men; yea, a very avenging angel out of heaven. But God has 
 shown me my sin and His will be done." 
 
Peter Patrick. 
 
 By SAI.I.Y PRATT McLEAN GREENE 
 
 with the author's special permission. 
 
Peter Patrick. 
 
 PETER Patrick O'Rorke came down one November morn- 
 ing into a world short of jackets, short of trousers, short 
 of bread and butter, short of everything, in fact, ex- 
 cept boys. 
 
 Came into a world of crusts and gristle and bones, beatings 
 and scoldings, and cuffings, cold and hunger and rags, and 
 straightway set out to grow a robust inch every day of his life. 
 
 Then Nature tricked him out with such a redundant crop of 
 light curling red hair. Mirth and mischief mixed in generously 
 with the abuse showered upon him during the week; and then of 
 a Sunday to stand up in the church at the head of all the choir- 
 boys, rolling out praise and gratitude to God in a voice that 
 hadn't a single husky or faltering note in it; so that the choir- 
 master loved him as he listened, though he had to thrash him 
 very often, at the rehearsals too. 
 
 But now of a week day morning, Peter Patrick, having al- 
 ready had a cuffing from old Peter and a rating from Mrs. 
 O'Rorke, tied up the fast loosening sole of his shoe with a tow 
 string, drew a brush through his hair, stuck what was left him 
 of a cap jauntily off over one ear, thrust his hands in his - 
 pockets, and started off for school, with the air of a grand duke. 
 
 He stopped as usual before the house of the Hon. John Gran- 
 ville to turn somersaults for the delight of poor little Barney 
 Granville who, unlike Peter Patrick, didn't grow. 
 
 "You'll be late at school again this morning, won't you, Peter 
 Patrick?" said little Barney at last. 
 
 "Och, thin, wait till they onc't have me there airly! Faith, 
 t/iai 'ud be somethin' worth spakin' of, Misther Barney." 
 
 "And will you get punished again to-day?" Peter Patrick 
 gave vent to a mirthful roar. 
 
 "An' do ye think it'll be only wan licking Pll be gettin' the 
 day, Misther Barney? Faith, ye might hould up all the fingers 
 o' yer two little white hands, an' ye wouldn't have enough to be 
 namin' 'em. But don't let that be troublin' the darlin' heart o* 
 
 (16) 
 
226 PETER PATRICK. 
 
 « 
 
 ye. My hide's that tough jist I don't fale 'em at all, at all. 
 Sure, they roll off'n me like rain-water off a duck." 
 
 Then Peter Patrick nodded, stuck his cap over the other ear, 
 and sauntered down the avenue. 
 
 It was his habit, when he reached the culvert, to leave the 
 main thoroughfare and take a new route by a path along the 
 cliff to the exposed trestle work of the railroad bridge. This 
 morning he discovered, oh, bliss of the moment! some workmen 
 planting new telegraph poles along the edge of the cliff, and 
 there was Charley Granville, Barney's cousin and the great 
 Judge Granville's son, with a written excuse in his pocket, with 
 which he had started for school sometime about one hour or 
 more ago. 
 
 Up to him sauntered Peter Patrick, gladsome as the daylight, 
 though with no excuse at all in his pocket. Now Charley had 
 been bragging in easy fashion to the workmen about his father's 
 wealth, and his own scholarship, and he thought still more to 
 distinguish himself by making sport of Peter Patrick; so he 
 cried out: 
 
 "Fair and square, and the witness there. 
 Make you a bet, and I'll beat you yet. 
 
 Bet you, Peter Patrick, I'll be up one of those telegraph poles 
 before you are. ' ' 
 
 Up in a flash, breathless, scrambling, tearing a few more 
 generous rents, in his woful trousers, flew Peter Patrick. 
 Surely he did look comical in that position, in his floating rags, 
 to Charley, who had not stirred from his place, and now stood 
 laughing insultingly. 
 
 ''Well, what do you see up there, Red Top?" 
 
 "Ochthin," said Patrick quietly, grasping the pole with his 
 legs and folding his arms, ''it's only a little woodchoock I see be- 
 low there, I guess. Or maybe it's a little donkey. Faith, but 
 I'm belavin' it's only a donkey after all." 
 
 Roar after roar went up from the group of workmen. 
 Charley realized that both his wit and his company were at a 
 discount. 
 
 "You'd better come down, all afire." 
 
 "Oh, I'm a-comin';" whereat Charley made no further ques- 
 tion but took to his heels. 
 
 Peter Patrick overtook him and collared him, "Now I ain't 
 
PETER PATRICK. 227 
 
 goin' to be givin' ye the lickin' ye desarve, for I'm jist that 
 stronger than ye be; nor I don't bear ye no ill-will nayther, ye 
 little lyin' deceaver, but I'm only goin' to give ye a little 
 wallopin'-like, jist for the health of ye." 
 
 This Peter Patrick proceeded to do. And then on sped 
 Charley to school, breathing vengeance. His excuse for a 
 quarter of an hour's tardiness was of no use now anyway; he 
 tore it in pieces with malicious intent. 
 
 As for Peter Patrick, he sauntered on at his usual gait. 
 
 "An hour and a half late, Peter Patrick!" exclaimed the 
 schoolmaster. 
 
 "Is that so! Dade, sir, but me close' 11 be wore out on me 
 'afore night, the time flies so on me!" And having had his 
 joke, he went up and took his whipping. But the school- 
 master still retained his hand. 
 
 "And more than that, sir, you threw down Mr. Charley Gran- 
 ville as he was hurrying on his way here, and beat him and stole 
 from him the excuse for necessary tardiness which his mother 
 had written me." 
 
 Then Peter Patrick straightened himself up, his lips curled, 
 and I think it was a very fine look that came into his eyes of 
 silent proud contempt, and he held his hand out without a word, 
 without one sign of pain or shrinking, receiving stinging blow 
 after blow; and when it was over, quietly turned without a 
 word and took his seat. 
 
 It was the last winter of Peter Patrick's attempt at schooling 
 and he was to go down to the iron-mills to work. 
 
 "Wait thin, and I'll be gittin' ye a new gownd, mither," said 
 he. 
 
 "Ye'd better be gettin' yerself a new jacket," and it rankled 
 in Mrs. O'Rorke's breast because an artist, spending his sum- 
 mer in Granville, had painted Peter Patrick down,— red head, 
 ragged jacket, and all, and carried him off to a big town, and 
 sold him there for a thousand dollars. It was pretty hard, she 
 reflected, to have a boy "so comical that the very picture of 'im 
 sold for a thousand dollars." And Mrs. O'Rorke would have 
 stood speechless with astonishment if she could have heard 
 what the artist actually said many times in describing the paint- 
 ing, that it was "the picture of an Irish lad, down at Granville's 
 Mills, who had the niost beautiful face he ever saw!" 
 
228 PETER PATRICK. 
 
 Christmas holidays; and all the lads and lassies were out 
 coasting with their new sl'^ds, Charley Granville with a famous 
 one. Laughing sh.uting up and down the hill they went, and 
 merrltst of all, Peter Patrick, on a plank! steering it on his 
 leet, steering it on his knees, making wonderful manipulations 
 with the crazy old board, riding down any way but the right 
 -ay. 
 
 Then Charley Granville, in his excitement, chose a longer 
 and steeper hill; it took in a railroad crossing, too! but it was a 
 branch road, no trains due except at night and morning. 
 
 There, waving his cap, came Charley Granville, a load of 
 little lads and lassies filling his sled, tucked in, wedged in, piled 
 in anyhow. 
 
 Ana there! Oh, God!— around the bank came an * 'extra" 
 train, its whistle belching out a shrill agony of warning. No 
 use! Fate sat like death on that gilded little sled, with its 
 swift-flying helpless load, and with a face like death Charley 
 Granville threw himself off from the steerer's seat behind— 
 so that he might save himself. 
 
 Peter Patrick, returning with his plank, had reached the 
 crossing at the foot of the hill. In one brief instant he marked 
 with his keen eye the slight level place just the other side, and 
 saw what could be done. With outstretched arms the young 
 giant rushed forward, leaped the track to await that precious 
 helpless load! The iron swan-heads pierced his breast! but he 
 received it, held it, barred it from death, with his broken arms, 
 with his bleeding and unconscious breast. 
 
 Aye! they were saved; and Peter Patrick lay with quiet, up- 
 turned face in the sunshine. 
 
 But when he lay with his arms folded in his white grave 
 clothes, and his features so fine and peaceful in the clustering 
 hair that had been growing dark of late, they began to see upon 
 his face something of that beauty which the painter saw. 
 
 The Hon. John Granville and the honorable Judge Granville, 
 brothers, agreed that it would be a worthy and appropriate act 
 to put up a monument to the memory of Peter Patrick. But 
 on account of a threatened depression in certain stocks, I am 
 happy to say they "forgot" it. For on Peter Patrick's neg- 
 lected grave a slender alder and a sweet wild thorn bush have 
 sprung up, and in the wild and windy night they lean against 
 
PETER PATRICK. 22^ 
 
 each other, and it makes a cross, not of polished and chiselled 
 marble indeed, but rugged, thorny, sharp, like the one Christ 
 died on; and in the wild and windy night, when no foot passes, 
 the infinite multitude of stars look down, and they behold it. 
 
Paul and Virginia. 
 
 By B. DE SAINT PIERRE. 
 
 With the permission of Georg-e Routledg-e & Sons, Piibhshers. 
 
Paul and Virginia. 
 
 PAUL and Virginia had fondly loved one another from child- 
 hood. Their first separation came when Virginia was sent 
 to France to spend a year with her aunt. But now her 
 'return to the Island of Mauritius was daily expected, and Paul's 
 rapture knew no bounds. 
 
 It was about ten o'clock at night and I was just going to re- 
 tire to rest when I heard the voice of Paul calling me, crying: 
 
 "Come along, come along! Virginia is arrived. Let us go to 
 the port: the vessel will anchor at break of day." 
 
 Scarcely had he uttered the words when we set off. We bent 
 our course towards the northern part of the Island. The heat 
 was suffocating. The moon had risen and was surrounded by 
 three black circles. A frightful darkness shrouded the sky; but 
 the frequent flashes of lightning discovered to us long rows of 
 thick and gloomy clouds, hanging very low, and heaped together 
 over the centre of the island, being driven in with great rapid- 
 ity from the ocean, although not a breath of air was perceptible 
 upon the land. 
 
 At midnight, by great exertion, we arrived at the sea-shore. 
 The billows were breaking against the beach with a horrible, 
 noise. One of the standers-by related that late in the after- 
 noon he had seen a vessel in the open sea driven towards the 
 island by the currents; that the night had hidden it from his 
 view; and that two hours after sunset he had heard the firing 
 of signal-guns of distress, but that the surf was so high that it 
 was impossible to launch a boat to go off to her. The ship, he 
 thought, was in very great danger. 
 
 At about seven in the morning we heard the sound of drums 
 in the woods: it announced the approach of the governor, Mon- 
 sieur de la Bourdonnais. He drew up his soldiers upon the beach 
 and ordered them to make a general discharge. This was no 
 sooner done than we perceived a glimmering light upon the 
 water, which was instantly followed by the report of a cannon. 
 
^34 PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 
 
 We now discerned through the fog the hull and yards of a 
 large vessel. We were so near to her that, notwithstanding 
 the tumult of the waves, we could distinctly hear the shouts of 
 the sailors, who cried out three times, VIVE LE ROI! this 
 being the cry of the French in extreme danger as well as in 
 exuberant joy. 
 
 One of the most aged planters, approaching the governor, 
 said to him: "We have heard all night hollow noises in the 
 mountain; in the woods the leaves of the trees are shaken, al- 
 though there is no wind ; the sea-birds seek refuge upon the 
 land: it is certain that all these signs announce a hurricane." 
 
 Everything, indeed, presaged the near approach of the hurri- 
 cane. The centre of the clouds in the zenith was of a dismal 
 black, while their skirts were tinged with a copper-colored hue. 
 The air resounded with the cries of tropic-birds. Towards nine 
 in the morning we heard in the direction of the ocean the most 
 terrific noise, like the sound of thunder mingled with that of 
 torrents rushing down the steeps of lofty mountains. A general 
 cry was heard of * 'There is the hurricane!" and the next mo- 
 ment a frightful gust of wind dispelled the fog. 
 
 The Saint-Geran then presented herself to our view, her deck 
 crowded with people. She presented her head to the waves 
 that rolled in from the open sea, and as each billow rushed into 
 the narrow strait where she lay, her bow lifted to such a degree 
 as to show her keel; and at the same moment her stern, plung- 
 ing into the water, disappeared altogether from our sight, as if 
 swallowed up by the surges. Every billow which broke upon 
 the coast advanced roaring to the bottom of the bay. 
 
 The sea, swelled by the violence of the wind, rose higher 
 every moment; and the whole channel was soon one vast sheet 
 of white foam, full of yawning pits of black and deep billows. 
 The appearance of the horizon portended a lasting tempest; the 
 sky and water seemed blended together. Thick masses of 
 clouds, of a frightful form, swept across the zenith with the 
 swiftness of birds, while others appeared motionless as rocks. 
 
 From the violent rolling of the ship, what we all dreaded 
 happened at last. The cables which held her bow were torn 
 away; she then swung to a single hawser, and was instantly 
 dashed upon the rocks. A general cry of horror issued from 
 the spectators. Paul rushed forward to throw himself into the 
 sea, crying, "Let me go to save her, or let me die!" 
 
PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 235 
 
 Domingo and I fastened a long cord round his waist, and held 
 it fast by the end. Paul then precipitated himself towards the 
 Saint-Geran, now swimming and now walking upon the rocks. 
 Sometimes he had hopes of reaching the vessel, but suddenly 
 the billows, returning with fresh fury, shrouded it beneath 
 mountains of waters which then lifted it upright upon its keel. 
 The breakers at the same moment threw the unfortunate Paul 
 far upon the beach, his legs bathed in blood, his bosom wounded, 
 and himself half -dead. 
 
 At this moment we beheld an object which wrung our hearts 
 with grief and pity: a young lady appeared in the stern-gallery 
 of the Saint-Geran, stretching out her arms towards him who 
 was making so many efforts to join her. It was Virginia. 
 With a firm and dignified mien, she waved her hand as if bid- 
 ding us an eternal farewell. 
 
 All the sailors had flung themselves into the sea, except one, 
 who still remained upon the deck and who was naked and strong 
 as Hercules. This man approached Virginia; then we heard re- 
 doubled cries from the spectators, ''Save her! — save her! — do 
 not leave her!" But at that moment a mountain billow of 
 enormous magnitude engulfed itself between the Isle of Amber 
 and the coast and menaced the shattered vessel, towards which 
 it rolled bellowing, with its black sides and foaming head. At 
 this terrible sight the sailor flung himself into the sea, and 
 Virginia, seeing death inevitable, crossed her hands upon her 
 breast, and raising upwards h^r serene and beauteous eyes, 
 seemed an angel prepared to take her flight to heaven. 
 
 Oh! day of horror! Alas! everything was swallowed up by 
 the relentless billows. The surge threw far upon the beach the 
 sailor who had endeavored to save her life. This man, who had 
 escaped from almost certain death, kneeling on the sand, ex- 
 claimed: '*0h, my God! Thou hast saved my fife, but I would 
 have given it willingly for that excellent young lady. " 
 
 On our return home some negroes informed us that the sea 
 had thrown up many pieces of the wrec': in the opposite bay. 
 We descended towards it; and one of the first objects which 
 struck my sight upon the beach was the corpse of Virginia. 
 The body was half covered with sand and preserved the atti- 
 tude in which we had seen her perish. One of her hands, which 
 she held on her heart, was fast closed and so stiffened that it 
 
^36 PAUL AND VIRGINIA. 
 
 was with difficulty I took from its grasp a small box. How 
 great was my emotion when I saw it contained the picture of 
 Paul, which she had promised him never to part with while she 
 lived! 
 
The Boogah Man. 
 
 By PAUL LAWRENCE DUNBAR. 
 
 with the special permission of the author. 
 
The Boogah Man. 
 
 W'EN de evenin' shadders 
 Come a-glidin' down, 
 Fallin' black an' heavy 
 Ovah hill an' town, 
 Ef you listen keerful, 
 Keerful ez you kin, 
 So's you boun' to notice 
 
 Des a drappin' pin; 
 Den you'll hyeah a funny 
 
 Soun' ercross de Ian'; 
 Lay low; dat's de callin' 
 Of de Boogah Man! 
 
 Woo-oo, woo-oo! 
 
 Hyeah him ez he go erlong de way; 
 Woo-oo, woo-oo! 
 
 Don' you wish de night 'ud tu'n to day? 
 Woo-oo, woo-oo! 
 
 Hide yo' little peepers 'hind yo' han'; 
 Woo-oo, woo-oo! 
 
 Callin' of de Boogah Man. 
 
 W'en de win's a-shiverin' 
 
 Thoo de gloomy lane. 
 An' dey comes de patterin' 
 
 Of de evenin' rain, 
 W'en de owl's a-hootin', 
 
 Out daih in de wood, 
 Don' you wish, my honey, 
 
 Dat you had been good? 
 'Tain't no use to try to 
 
 Snuggle up to Dan; 
 Bless you, dat's de callin' 
 
 Of de Boogah Man! 
 
240 THE BOOGAH MAN. 
 
 Woo-oo, woo-oo! 
 
 Hyeah him ez he go erlong de way; 
 Woo-oo, woo-oo! 
 
 Don' you wish de night 'ud tu'n to day? 
 Woo-oo, woo-oo! 
 
 Hide yo' little peepers 'hind yo' han'; 
 Woo-oo, woo-oo! 
 
 Calling of de Boogah Man. 
 
 Ef you loves yo' mammy, 
 
 An' you min's yo pap, 
 Ef you nevah wriggles 
 
 Outen Sukey's lap; 
 Ef you says yo' ''Lay me" 
 
 Evah single night 
 Fo' dey tucks de kivers 
 
 An' puts out de light, 
 Den de rain kin pattah, 
 
 Win' blow lak a fan, 
 But you needn' botha 
 
 'Bout de Boogah Man! 
 
 Woo-oo, woo-oo! 
 
 Hyeah him ez he go erlong de way; 
 Woo-oo, woo-oo! 
 
 Don' you wish de night 'ud tu'n to day? 
 Woo-oo, woo-oo! 
 
 Hide yo' little peepers 'hind yo' han'; 
 Woo-oo, woo-oo! 
 
 Callin' of de Boogah Man. 
 
Selection from Glengarry School Days. 
 
 By RALPH CONNOR. 
 
 With the permission of the Publishers. 
 Copyright, 1902, Fleming H. Revell Company, November. 
 
 (17) 
 
Glengarry School Days. 
 
 The Crisis. 
 
 THE new teacher of the "Twentieth" school was not popu- 
 lar. There was more flogging done those first six days 
 than during any six months of Archie Munro's rule. 
 When the floggings fell upon the smaller boys, the girls would 
 weep and the bigger boys would grind their teeth and swear. 
 They were afraid the temptation to throw the master out would 
 some day be more than they could bear. Little Jimmie Came- 
 ron precipitated the crisis. He could not always control his 
 habit of giggling and he had finally been warned that upon his 
 next outburst punishment would fall. 
 
 It was Friday afternoon that suddenly a snort of unusual vio- 
 lence burst upon the schools Immediately every eye was upon 
 the master, for all had heard and had noted his threat to Jimmie 
 
 ''James, was that you, sir?" 
 
 There was no answer, except such as could be gathered from 
 Jimmie's very red and very shamed face. 
 
 "James, stand up!" 
 
 "Now, James, you remember what I promised you? Come 
 here, sir!" 
 
 Jimmie came slowly to the front, growing paler at each step, 
 and stood, with a dazed look on his face, before the master. 
 He had never been thrashed in all his life. At home the big 
 brothers might cuff him good-naturedly, or his mother thump 
 him on the head with her thimble, but a serious whipping was to 
 him an unknown horror. The master drew forth his heavy 
 black strap. 
 
 "James, hold out your hand!" 
 
 Jimmie promptly clutched his hand behind his back. 
 " "Hold out your hand, sir, at once!" No answer. 
 
 "James, you must do as you are told. Your punishment for 
 disobedience will be much severer than for laughing." But 
 Jimmie stood pale and silent, with his hands tight clasped behind 
 his back. 
 
244 GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS 
 
 The master stepped forward, and grasping the Httle boy's 
 arm, tried to pull his hand to the front; but Jimmie, with a roar 
 like that of a young bull, threw himself flat on his face on the 
 floor and put his hands under him. The school burst into a laugh 
 of triumph, which increased the master's embarrassment and 
 rage. 
 
 "Silence!" he said, "or it will be a worse matter for some of 
 you than for James. 
 
 Then turning his attention to Jimmie, he lifted him from the 
 floor and tried to pull out his hand. But Jimmie kept his arms 
 folded tight across his breast, roaring vigorously the while, and 
 saying over and over, "Go away from me! Go away from me, I 
 tell you! I'm not taking anything to do with you. " 
 
 The big boys were enjoying the thing immensely. The mas- 
 ter's rage was deepening in proportion. He felt it would never 
 do to be beaten. His whole authority was at stake. 
 
 "Now, James," he reasoned, "you see you are only making it 
 worse for yourself. I cannot allow any disobedience in the 
 school. You must hold out your hand. " 
 
 But Jimmie, realizing that he had come off best in the first 
 round, stood doggedly sniffing, his arms still folded tight. 
 
 "Now, James, I shall give you one more chance. Hold out 
 your hand. ' ' 
 
 Jimmie remained like a statute. 
 
 Whack! came the heavy strap over his shoulders. At once 
 Jimmie set up his refrain, "Go away from me, I tell you! I'm 
 not taking anything to do with you!" 
 
 Whack ! whack ! whack ! fell the strap with successive blows, 
 each heavier than the last. There was no longer any laughing 
 in the school. The affair was growing serious. The girls were 
 beginning to sob, and the bigger boys to grow pale. 
 
 "Now, James, will you hold out your hand? You see how 
 much worse you are making it for yourself. ' ' 
 
 But Jimmie only kept up his cry, now punctuated with sobs, 
 ' *I'm-not-taking-any thing-to-do-with-you. ' ' 
 
 "Well, then," said the master, suddenly, "you must take it," 
 and lifting the strap, he laid it with such sharp emphasis over 
 Jimmie's shoulders that Jimmie's voice rose in a wilder roar 
 than usual, and the girls burst into audible weeping. 
 
 Suddenly, above all the hubbub, rose a voice, clear and sharp. 
 
GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS. 245 
 
 "Stop!" It was Thomas Finch, of all people, standing with 
 face white and tense, and regarding the master with steady 
 eyes. 
 
 The school gazed thunderstruck at the usually slow and stolid 
 Thomas. 
 
 "What do you mean, sir?" said the master. 
 
 But Thomas stood silent, as much surprised as the master at 
 his sudden exclamation. 
 
 He stoo'd hesitating for a moment, and then said, "You can 
 thrash me in his place. He's a little chap, and has never been 
 thrashed." 
 
 The master misunderstood his hesitation for fear, pushed 
 Jimmie aside, threw down his strap, and seized a birch rod. 
 
 "Come forward, sir! I'll put an end to your insubordination, 
 at any rate. Hold out your hand!" 
 
 Thomas held out his hand till the master finished one birch 
 rod. 
 
 "The other hand, sir!" 
 
 Another birch rod was used up, but Thomas neither uttered a 
 sound nor made a move till the master had done, then he asked, 
 in a strained voice, "Were you going to give Jimmie all that, 
 sir?" 
 
 The master caught the biting sneer in the tone, and lost him- 
 self completely. 
 
 "Do you dare to answer me back?" he cried. He opened his 
 desk, took out a rawhide, and without waiting to ask for his 
 hand, began to lay the rawhide about Thomas's shoulders and 
 legs, till he was out of breath. 
 
 "Now, perhaps you will learn your place, sir," he said. 
 "Thank you," said Thomas, looking hftn steadily in the eye. 
 "You are welcome. And I'll give you as much more when- 
 ever you show that you need it. ' ' The slight laugh with which 
 he closed this brutal speech made Thomas wince as he had not 
 during his whole terrible thrashing, but still he had not a word 
 to say. 
 
 "Now, James, come here!" said the master, turning to 
 Jimmie, "You see what happens when a boy is insubordinate. " 
 Jimmie came trembling. 
 
 "Hold out your hand!" Out came Jimmie's hand at once. 
 Whack ! fell the strap. 
 
246 GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS. 
 
 *'The other!" 
 
 ''Stop it!" roared Thomas. "I took his thrashing." 
 
 "The other!" said the master, ignoring Thomas. 
 
 With a curious savage snarl Thomas sprang at him. The 
 master, however, was on the alert, and swinging round, met 
 him with a straight facer between the eyes, and Thomas went 
 to the floor. 
 
 ''Aha! my boy! I'll teach you something you have yet to 
 learn." 
 
 For answer came another cry, "Come on, boys!" It was 
 Ranald MacDonald, coming over the seats, followed by Don 
 Cameron, Billy Ross, and some smaller boys. The master 
 turned to meet them. 
 
 "Come along!" he said, backing up to his desk. "But I warn 
 you it's not a strap or a rawhide I shall use." 
 
 Ranald paid no attention to his words, but came straight 
 toward him, and when at arm's length, sprung at him with the 
 cry, "Horo, boys!" 
 
 But before he could lay his hands upon the master, he received 
 a blow straight on the bridge of the nose that staggered him 
 back, stunned and bleeding. By this time Thomas was up again, 
 and rushing in was received in like manner, and fell back over a 
 bench. 
 
 "How do you like it, boys?" smiled the master. "Come right 
 along." 
 
 The boys obeyed his invitation, approaching him, but more 
 warily, and awaiting their chance to rush. Suddenly Thomas, 
 with a savage snarl, put his head down and rushed in beneath 
 the master's guard, paid no attention to the heavy blow he re- 
 ceived on the head, and locking his arms around the master's 
 middle, buried his head close into his chest. 
 
 At once Ranald and Billy Ross threw themselves upon the 
 struggling pair and carried them to the floor, the master under- 
 neath. There was a few moments of fierce struggling, and 
 then the master lay still, with the four boys holding him down 
 for dear life. 
 
 It was Thomas who assumed command. 
 
 "Don't choke him so, Ranald, " he said. "And clear out of 
 the way, all you girls and little chaps. ' ' 
 "What are you going to do, Thomas?" 
 
GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS. 
 
 247 
 
 * 'Tie him up, * * said Thomas. ' 'Get me a sash. ' ' 
 At once two or three little boys rushed to the hooks and 
 brought one or two of the knitted sashes that hung there, and 
 Thomas proceeded to tie the master's legs. 
 
 While he was thus busily engaged, a shadow darkened the 
 door, and a voice exclaimed, "What is all this about?" It was 
 the minister, who had been driving past and had come upon the 
 terrified, weeping children rushing home. 
 "Is that you, Thomas? And you, Don?" 
 The boys let go their hold and stood up, shamed but defiant. 
 Immediately the master was on his feet, and with a swift, 
 fierce blow, caught Thomas on the chin. Thomas, taken off his 
 guard, fell with a thud on the floor. 
 
 "Stop that, young man!" said the minister, catching his arm. 
 "That's a coward's blow." 
 
 "Hands off!" said the master, shaking himself free and 
 squaring up to him. 
 
 "Ye would, would ye?" said the minister, gripping him by the 
 neck and shaking him as he might a child. "Lift ye're hand to 
 me, would ye? I'll break you're back to ye, and that I will." 
 So saying, the minister seized him by the arms and held him 
 absolutely helpless. The master ceased to struggle, and put 
 down his hands. 
 
 "Ay, ye'd better, my man," said the minister, giving him a 
 fling backward. 
 
 "Now, then," said the minister to the boys, "what does all 
 this mean?" 
 The boys were all silent, but the master spoke! 
 ' 'It is a case of rank and impudent insubordination, sir, and I 
 demand the expulsion of those impudent rascals. ' ' 
 
 "Well, sir, be sure there will be a thorough investigation,'^ and 
 I greatly misjudge the case if there are not faults on both sides. 
 And for one thing, the man who can strike such a cowardly 
 blow as you did a moment ago would not be unlikely to be guilty 
 of injustice and cruelty." 
 
 "It's none of your business," said the master, insolently. 
 "You will find that I shall make it my business. And now 
 boys, be off to your homes, and be here Monday morning at nine 
 o'clock, when this matter shall be gone into. " 
 
Selection from Barabbas. 
 
 By MARIE CORKLLI. 
 
 with the permission of the publishers, J. B. I^ippincott & Co. 
 With the special permission of Miss Marie Corelli. 
 
Selection from Barabbas. 
 
 MEANTIME, around the holy sepulchre the guard kept vig- 
 ilant watch. Behind it and on either side, armed men 
 paced,— in front of it the fierce and martial Galbus 
 stood. 
 
 "How they will laugh in Rome at this folly!" he said. "Did 
 any one ever dream the like! I, Galbus, a man who hath seen 
 war, set here to watch that a corpse escape not! By the gods! 
 Well, well! The night will soon be gone and this crazy business 
 finished; 'twill be as I say, matter for laughter in Rome when I 
 tell them how I and fourteen picked men out of my hundred 
 were forced to guard a poor dead body lest it should rise again. " 
 
 Lifting his helmet to cool his brows, he rubbed his eyes and 
 yawned. 
 
 "By my soul! 'tis a night for peaceful slumber, yet I may not 
 drowse, lest while I close my eyes, unheard-of powers disturb 
 the air"— 
 
 "Galbus! Galbus! Hist! Galbus!" 
 
 "What now?" he answered sharply, as the soldier who had 
 thus'called him hurriedly approached— "Why leavest thou thy 
 post, Maximus?" 
 
 "I called thee so that thou should'st Hsten." "I pray thee 
 hearken!— 'tis some unknown bird that sings! Hush! It begins 
 again!" 
 
 And before Galbus could utter another word, a silvery ripple 
 of music floated toward him. All at once it ceased,— but its 
 broken melody was taken up by a companion singer. This sec- 
 ond bird warbled even more rapturously than the first. 
 
 Galbus .started. " 'Tis wondrous,— I will not deny it," he 
 murmured. "First it was one bird, and now it seems as if 
 there were twenty. Never did I hear such singing in Palestine!" 
 
 The rippling notes seemed produced by some power unearthly. 
 
 Galbus flung himself back full length in the turfy hollow and 
 lay staring up at the stars and the moon. How those birds 
 sang! How sweetly the fragrant wind breathed through th^ 
 
252 SELECTION PROM BARABBAS. 
 
 dried and faintly rustling grass! He stretched his arms out on 
 either side of him with a sigh of lazy comfort. Involuntarily 
 closing his Angers on a tuft of grass he suddenly felt that he had 
 grasped something foreign to the soil, and looking to see what 
 he held, he found he had pulled up a small bell-shaped blossom, 
 pure white and delicately scented. He examined it attentively; 
 he had never beheld its like before. But there was such a list- 
 less heaviness upon him that he had no desire to lift himself up 
 and search for more such flowers, — had he done so he would have 
 witnessed a fairy-like and strange spectacle. For, from base to 
 summit of the hills around, the brown turf v/as rapidly being 
 covered up out of sight by masses of snowy bloom, breaking up- 
 wards like white foam,— thousands and thousands of blossoms 
 started from the trembling earth,— that earth wh^-^h panted with 
 the knowledge of a Divine Redemption, and yearned to pay its 
 glorious Master homage. And the hidden birds sang on, — 
 sweetly, passionately, triumphantly; and round the holy 
 sepulchre the soldiers nodded on the benches within their tents, 
 half sleeping, wholly dreaming, of love, of home, of kindred. 
 
 Only the young Maximus forced himself to keep wide awake 
 though he longed to fling himself down upon the turf and rest a 
 while, he resisted the oppression that lay heavy upon him, and 
 rising, walked slowly to and fro. Dreamily pondering, he was 
 all at once startled out of his reverie by a great light that fell 
 in one keen, dazzling flash straight from the heavens. Amazed 
 he looked up, and saw in the east a vivid rose-red radiance that 
 widened out swiftly even as he gazed upon it. Shaking off the 
 strange stupor that numbed his senses and held him for a 
 moment inert, he sprang quickly to the side of Galbus who was 
 all but fast asleep. 
 
 "Galbus! Galbus!" he shouted. 
 
 Galbus at once leaped fiercely erect. 
 
 Maximus, trembling, seized him by the arm, and half in 
 terror, half in expectancy, pointed eastward. 
 
 ''Galbus, the watch is ended! Lo,— the Dawn!" 
 
 Galbus stared wildly with dazzled eyes. "The dawn? . . . 
 the dawn, say est thou?" he muttered. "Nay, nay! . . . never 
 did dawn break thus strangely ! 'Tis fire! . . . or lightning! . . . 
 Maximus,— Maximus,— my sight fails me . . . yonder glory 
 hath a marvel in it! . . . 'tis blinding to the sight! ... ye 
 
SELECTION FROM BARABBAS. 253 
 
 gods,- look! . , . look there!" propping his lance, he stretched 
 out both arms towards the sky, losing breath and utterance in 
 the excess of his amazement and fear. 
 
 Then, — all at once, with a sudden sharp tremor the earth 
 shook; and there came the impetuous rush and whirl of a mighty 
 wind. 
 
 "Galbus, Galbus!" gasped Maximus — "Kneel! — kneel! for we 
 must die! The gods descend! Behold them where they come!" 
 
 With straining eyeballs and panting breath, Galbus gave one 
 upward frenzied stare. Tw^o majestic Shapes floated meteor- 
 like through space, and together silently descended at the closed 
 tomb of the "Nazarene. " Together they stood, the fire of 
 their white transparent wings quenching the silver reflex of the 
 sinking moon, — their radiant faces turned towards the closed 
 sepulchre wherein their Master slept. 
 
 Again the great wind rushed in resonant harp-like chords 
 through heaven,— again the ground rocked and trembled, and 
 again the thunder sounded its deep trump of wakening elo- 
 quence. And all the mystic voices of the air seemed whisper- 
 ing the great Truths about to be made manifest; — ''Death is 
 dead; Life is Eternal! God is Love!" 
 
 The dawn was near! — that Dawn which would be like no other 
 dawn that ever heralded a day, — the dawn of all the hope, the 
 joy, the faith, the love that waits upon the promised certainty 
 of life immortal. And now a deep silence reigned. All the 
 soldiers of the watch lay stretched on the ground unconscious, 
 as though struck dead by lightning. 
 
 Then, ... in the midst of the solemn hush, . . . the great 
 stone that closed the tomb of the Crucified trembled, . . . and 
 was suddenly thrust back like a door flung open in haste for the 
 exit of a King, . . . and lo! . . . a Third great Angel joined 
 the other two! , . . Sublimely beautiful He stood,— the Risen 
 from the Dead! . . . gazing with loving eyes on all the swoon- 
 ing sleeping world of men; the same grand Countenance that 
 had made a glory of the Cross of Death, now, with a smile of 
 victory, gave poor Humanity the gift of everlasting Life! 
 Nature exulted in the touch of things eternal, —and the dim 
 pearly light of the gradually breaking morn fell on ail things 
 with a greater purity, a brighter blessedness than ever had in- 
 vested it before. 
 
254 SELECTION FROM BARABBAS. 
 
 Reverently bent were the radiant heads of the angelic Beings 
 that had descended in full flight from Heaven; but He who 
 stood erect between them, tall and majestically fair, looked up- 
 ward once, then straight across the silent landscape and, stretch- 
 ing forth His hands, seemed by the tenderness of the gesture to 
 place His benediction on the world. 
 
 And presently, across the deep stillness there came the far-off 
 ringing of bells from the city, —then the faint stir and hum of 
 wakening life; — the first Easter morn spread fully forth its 
 golden blazon, and all aflame with wonder at the scene, the sun 
 rose. 
 
Selection from Glengarry School Days, 
 
 By RALPH CONNOR. 
 
 with the permission of the Publishers 
 Copyright, 1902, Fleming H. Revell Company, November, 
 
Glengarry School Days. 
 
 "One That Ruleth Well His Own House." 
 
 IT was at church on the Sabbath day that Donald Finch heard 
 about his son's doings in the school the week before. The 
 minister, in his sermon, thought fit to dwell upon the 
 tendency of the rising generation to revolt against authority in 
 all things, and solemnly laid upon parents the duty and responsi- 
 bility of seeing to it that they ruled their households well. 
 
 Donald Finch not knowing to whom the minister referred was 
 highly pleased with the sermon, and was enlarging upon it in the 
 churchyard where the people gathered between the services, 
 when Peter McRae said: 
 
 ' 'And do you not think that the conduct of your son last week 
 calls for any reproof? And is it you that will stand up and de- 
 fend it in the face of the minister and his sermon upon it this 
 day?" 
 
 "Thomas?" gasped Donald. "My Thomas?" 
 
 **You have not heard, then?" said Peter, and old Donald only 
 shook his head. 
 
 **Then it's time you did, for such things are a disgrace to the 
 community." 
 
 From one and another the tale came forth with embellish- 
 ments, till Donald Finch was reduced to such a state of voice- 
 less rage and humiliation that he departed for his home, 
 trembling, silent, amazed. How Thomas could have brought 
 this disgrace upon him, he could not imagine. It was a terrible 
 blow to his pride. 
 
 "It is the Lord's judgment upon me," he said to himself, as 
 he tramped his way through the woods. "It is the curse of Eli 
 that is hanging over me and mine. ' ' 
 
 It was in this spirit that he met his family at the supper- 
 table. "What is this I hear about you, Thomas? What is this 
 I hear about you, sir?" 
 
 Thomas remained silent. 
 
 (18) 
 
258 GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS. 
 
 "What is this that has become the talk of the countryside and 
 the disgrace of my name?" 
 
 "No very great disgrace, surely," said Billy Jack. 
 
 "Be you silent, sir! I will ask for your opinion when I require 
 it. You and others beside you in this house need to learn your 
 places." 
 
 "I wonder at you, Thomas, after such a sermon as yon. I 
 wonder you are able to sit there unconcerned at this table. I 
 wonder you are not hiding your head in shame and confusion. ' ' 
 The old man was lashing himself into a white rage, while 
 Thomas sat looking stolidly before him, his slow tongue finding 
 no words of defense. 
 
 "It is not often that Thomas has grieved you," ventured the 
 mother, timidly, for, with all her courage, she feared her hus- 
 band when he was in this mood. 
 
 "Woman, be silent! It is not for you to excuse his wicked- 
 ness. But I vow unto the Lord I will put an end to it now, 
 whatever. And I will give you to remember, sir, to the end of 
 your days, this occasion. And now, hence from this table. Let 
 me not see your face till the Sabbath is past, and then, if the 
 Lord spares me, I will deal with you. 
 
 Thomas hesitated a moment as if he had not quite taken in his 
 father's words, then, leaving his supper untouched, he rose 
 slowly, and without a word, climbed the ladder to the loft. 
 
 Before going to her room the mother slipped up quietly to the 
 loft and found Thomas lying in his bunk, dressed and awake. 
 His conscience clearly condemned him for his fight with the 
 master, and yet, somehow he could not regret having stood up 
 for Jimmie and taken his punishment. Ever since the moment 
 he had stood up and uttered his challenge to the master, he had 
 felt himself to be different. That moment now seemed to be- 
 long to the distant years when he was a boy, and now he could 
 not imagine himself submitting to a flogging from any man, and 
 it seemed to him strange and almost impossible that even his 
 father should lift his hand to him. 
 
 The mother sat silent beside him for a time, and then said, 
 quietly, "You did not tell me, Thomas." 
 
 "No, mother, I didn't like. I wish now I had." And then 
 Thomas told his mother all the tale, finishing his story with the 
 words, "And I couldn't help it, mother, at all." 
 
GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS. 259 
 
 "No, Thomas, I know you couldn't help it, and I — I am not 
 ashamed of you." 
 
 ''Areyounot, mother? Then I don't care. I couldn't make 
 it out well. 
 
 ''Never you mind, Thomas, it will be well," and she leaned 
 over him and kissed him. 
 
 "Oh, mother, mother, I don't care now," he cried, his breath 
 coming in great sobs. "I don't care at all." And he put his 
 arms around his mother, clinging to her as if he had been a 
 child. 
 
 "I know, laddie, I know," whispered his mother. "Never 
 you fear, never you fear." And then, as if to herself, she 
 added, "Thank the Lord you are not a coward, whatever. " 
 
 Thomas found himself again without words, but he held his 
 mother fast, his big body shaking with his sobs. 
 
 "And Thomas, your father — we must just be patient. And— 
 and — he is a good man. It will be all right, Thomas, You go 
 to sleep." 
 
 Thomas lay down, certain that all would be well. His mother 
 had never failed him. The mother went down stairs with the 
 purpose in her heart of having a talk with her husband, but 
 Donald Finch knew that it would be impossible for him to 
 persevere in his intention "to deal with" Thomas if he allowed 
 his wife to have any talk with him. 
 
 The next morning he ate his breakfast in grim silence. ' 'You 
 will come to me in the room after breakfast," said his father, 
 as Thomas rose to go to the stable. 
 
 "There's a meeting of the trustees at nine o'clock at the 
 school-house at which Thomas must be present," interposed 
 Billy Jack, in firm, steady tones. 
 
 "He may go when I have done with him, and meantime you 
 will attend to your own business. " 
 
 "Yes, sir, I will that!" 
 
 "What do you mean, sir?" 
 
 "What I say. I am going to attend to my own business, and 
 that soon. " 
 
 "Go to it, then." 
 
 "I am going, and I am going to take Thomas to that meeting 
 at nine o'clock." 
 
 "I did not know that you had business there." 
 
260 GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS. 
 
 "Then you may know it now, for I am going. And as sure as 
 I stand here, I will see that Thomas gets fair play there if he 
 doesn't at home, if I have to lick every trustee in the section." 
 
 "Hold your peace, sir! Do not give me any impertinence, and 
 do not accuse me of unfairness. " 
 
 "Have you heard Thomas's side of the story?" 
 
 "I have heard enough and more than enough." 
 
 "You haven't heard both sides." 
 
 "I know the truth of it, whatever, the shameful and disgrace- 
 ful truth of it. I know that the countryside is ringing with it. 
 I know that in the house of God the minister held up my family 
 to the scorn of the people. And I vowed to do my duty to my 
 house." 
 
 In the pause that followed the old man's outburst the mother 
 came to her son. 
 
 "Hush, William John! You are not to forget yourself, nor 
 your duty to your father and to me. Thomas will receive full 
 justice in this matter. ' ' 
 
 As they stood there looking at each other there came a knock 
 at the back door. It was Long John Cameron. Long John 
 came in, glanced shrewdly about, and greeted Mr. Finch with 
 great heartiness. 
 
 * *You were wanting to see me, Mr. Cameron? I have a busi- 
 ness on hand which requires attention. ' ' 
 
 "Indeed, and so have I. For it is— " 
 
 "And indeed it is just as well you and all should know it, for 
 my disgrace is well known." 
 
 "Disgrace!" 
 
 "Ay, disgrace. For is it not a disgrace to have the conduct 
 of your family become the occasion of a sermon on the Lord's 
 Day?" 
 
 "Indeed, I did not think much of yon sermon, whatever." 
 
 "I cannot agree with you, Mr. Cameron. It was a powerful 
 sermon, and it was only too sorely needed. But I hope it will 
 not be without profit to myself. With the help of the Lord I 
 will be doing my duty this morning. ' ' 
 
 "And I am very glad to hear that, for that is why I am 
 come." 
 
 "And what may you have to do with it?" 
 
 "As to that, indeed, I am not yet quite sure. But if I might 
 
GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS. 261 
 
 ask without being too bold, what is the particular duty to which 
 you are referring?" 
 
 "You may ask, and you and all have a right to know, for I am 
 about to visit upon my son his sins and shame. " 
 
 ''And is it meaning to wheep him you are?" 
 
 **Ay." 
 
 "Indeed, then, you will just do no such thing this morning." 
 
 "And by what right do you interfere in my domestic affairs? 
 Answer me that, Mr. Cameron?" 
 
 "Right or no right, before any man lays a finger on Thomas 
 there, he will need to begin with myself. And there are not 
 many in the country who would care for that job. " 
 
 Old Donald Finch looked at his visitor in speechless amaze- 
 ment. At length Long John grew excited. 
 
 "Man alive! it's a quare father you are. You may be think- 
 ing it disgrace, but the section will be proud that there is a boy 
 in it brave enough to stand up for the weak against a brute 
 bully." And then he proceeded to tell the tale as he had heard 
 it from Don with such strong passion and such rude vigor, that 
 in spite of himself old Donald found his rage vanish, and his 
 heart began to move within him toward his son. 
 
 * 'And it is for that, it is for that that you would punish your 
 son. May God forgive me ! but the man that lays a finger on 
 Thomas yonder, will come into sore grief this day. Ay, lad, ' ' 
 continued Ijong John, striding toward Thomas and gripping him 
 by the shoulders with both hands, "you are a man, and you 
 stood up for the weak yon day, and if you ef er will be wanting a 
 friend, remember John Cameron." 
 
 "Well, well, Mr. Cameron, it may be as you say. It may be 
 the lad was not so mnch in the wrong. ' ' 
 
 * 'In the wrong? In the wrong? May my boys ever be in the 
 wrong in such a way!" 
 
 "Well, we shall see about this. And if Thomas has suffered 
 injustice it is not his father will refuse to see him righted." 
 And soon they were all off to the meeting at the school-house. 
 
 Thomas was the last to leave the room. As usual, he had not 
 been able to find a word, but stood white and trembling, but as 
 he found himself alone with his mother, once more his stolid re- 
 serve broke down, and he burst into a strange and broken cry, 
 "Oh, mother, mother." 
 
262 ' GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS. 
 
 * 'Never mind, laddie, you have borne yourself well, and your 
 mother is proud of you. " 
 
 At the investigation held in the school-house, it became clear 
 that, though the insubordination of both Jimmie and Thomas 
 was undeniable, the provocation by the master had been very 
 great. And such was the rage of old Donald Finch and Long 
 John Cameron that the upshot was that the master took his de- 
 parture from the section, glad enough to escape with bones un- 
 broken. 
 
Vive L'Empereur. 
 
 By MARY RAYMOND SHIPMAN ANDREWS, 
 
 By Special Permissiou of Author. 
 
Vive L'Empereur. 
 
 IT is the year 1832. Louis Philippe is upon the throne of 
 France, when Prince Talleyrand and Marshal Ney obtain 
 possession of papers signed by Napoleon himself certify- 
 ing that Norah, a charming young girl living at the home of 
 Colonel Fitzgerald, an Irish gentleman, and supposed to be 
 his daughter, is really the legitimate child of Napoleon, and 
 they determine to place her upon the throne of France. They 
 therefore go to Col. Fitzgei aid's home, and Michael, a brave 
 young Irish lad, who loves Norah and to whom she has given 
 her whole heart, is sent to bring her before them. 
 
 "My little Norah," said Colonel Fitzgerald, *'I have very 
 great news to tell you to-night. These gentlemen are come, 
 my darling, to bring you a great fortune — a great responsibil- 
 ity—and you must meet it and take it up like a brave lady, as 
 you are. A nation needs my little girl, they tell me. France 
 wants you, mavoumeen, and France has the right, for you are 
 the only child of Napoleon. ' ' 
 
 As the young girl stood there she seemed to these men every- 
 thing that could be desired. She bore a likeness to the Em- 
 peror that would convince the nation at once. She herself was 
 perfect. She had spirit, charm, intelligence, beauty— she would 
 carry the impressionable Frenchmen— all France — by storm! 
 
 Then Prince Talleyrand spoke: "Permit an old man, your 
 Highness, the honor to be the first, on this great day of your 
 young life to offer my felicitations, my allegiance, my life, if 
 need be, to your father's daughter," and taking the gi^rl's hand 
 he bowed low over it and kissed it. "There can be no question 
 of your parentage, my Princess, the proofs are complete. If 
 our hopes come true — and it is hardly possible they will not — you 
 will be, by the grace of God, Empress of France. " 
 
 The fire crackled, and a heavy log fell in the dead silence. 
 Then Norah spoke. 
 
 "Gentlemen, it is a thing I must think over before I can give 
 you an answer. It is no light matter to decide. " 
 
266 VIVE l'empereur. 
 
 "To decide?" echoed Marshal Victor. "Her Highness do not 
 understand we, or we does not understand her Gracious High- 
 ness's tongue. It is necessaire to make part to her Highness 
 what is necessaire— more clear. Talleyrand, speak more clear 
 the English then. Why not? I think well, it must be to tell her 
 Highness we have the honor to place her on the throne of La 
 France — to-morrow night. " 
 
 "I will not go," said Norah, calmly. 
 
 At that there was consternation in the camp. "Mon Dieu! 
 Mon Dieu!" cried the Marshal, throwing up his hands in horror. 
 
 "1 will not have her Highness scolded," said Talleyrand. 
 "What, ami to see you attack our sovereign lady, and no cham- 
 pion to defend her but one lame old man? Eh, bien, so be it, 
 then— it is not the first time I have fought against the world! 
 And won! And won, your Highness!" He turned to her, and 
 his eyes shone and his voice was like a sweet trumpet-call. "We 
 will fight the world together, my lady, and we will win the bat- 
 tle. I — I have never failed, and you have never tried yet, but 
 you cannot fail! The compact is made between us. Never 
 fear, nothing can stand against us two," and he bent over 
 again and kissed Norah's little hand. 
 
 But the girl, of all in the room, alone kept her thoughts 
 steady. 
 
 "Prince, I think you must be the most fascinating man in al 
 the world," she said, smiling up at him, "and you are very good 
 to me; but there is no compact between us yet. Not till I un- 
 derstand. " 
 
 Then the Marshal took up the wondrous tale. 
 
 "But see, your Highness, ca m'etonne. It is th3,t ce garcon- 
 la, si bete, he does not make you to comprehend. Ah, if it were 
 I who had the youth and the English, so impossible. Ah! how 
 then would I show you the picture of the beautiful young girl to 
 lead the armies of France, who acclaim for her. The regiments 
 cry, speak, squeal, shout — ah, yes, shout for the daughter of 
 Napoleon! The old soldiers— the soldiers de I'Empereur — it is 
 they who become mad of joy. It is the resemblance you have 
 at the great Emperor that is merveilleuse. Your eyes then, they 
 burn like the eyes of le Grand Capitaine. It is to be the adored 
 of La France, your country to you! A few days of the anxiety, 
 and then— AH!" 
 
VIVE l'empereur. 267 
 
 As he finished, Talleyrand's clear, quiet, incisive voice came 
 as a relief to the over-strained girl. 
 
 ''Eh Men, then, my little Princess, I shall not have you 
 bullied. My comrade that is, my Empress that will be— I will 
 not flatter you, but I will tell you that with you on the throne, 
 the future of our country will be assured. France demands 
 you. Reverence for your great father must bring you. You 
 bear your name in trust for France. We will marry you to a 
 great Prince and a fortunate, and the country will be secure. 
 Come then across the sea, and rule over us, and France shall 
 see bright days." 
 
 There was a long silence while all in the hall watched the two 
 strong spirits gazing at each other, from the eyes of the girl of 
 twenty-one, and the man of seventy-eight. Talleyrand was 
 well pleased with her. This was no cheap school- girl person- 
 ality, to forsake its position at a touch. She must weigh his 
 words. She was indeed Napoleon's daughter. But of the end 
 he had no glimmer of doubt. He must triumph, of course, he — 
 the great Talleyrand— over a girl — of course. 
 
 Norah rose. Her great gray eyes swept the little circle calm- 
 ly, all alike— her lover, and the two great Frenchmen. 
 
 "Gentlemen", she said, "it is now for me to make a little 
 speech. You speak of France as my country and say it demands 
 me and my name— which I never knew was my name till just 
 now. You say reverence for my father should make me go. 
 Listen, then. It is not France that has been a country to me— 
 it is Ireland, gentlemen. And it is Ireland that I love, not 
 France. It is Ireland that I w^ould shed my heart's blood for. 
 And the Emperor may be my father— you say you can prove 
 that to me. But why should I give up home and life and all I 
 love, to do his pleasure, after I'm grown and worth the while, 
 when he would have none of me when I was small and helpless? 
 Here is my real father." She bent and kissed Colonel Fitz- 
 gerald's forehead. "The Emperor is nothing to me. I care 
 nothing for France. " 
 
 No one spoke, but in the silence could be heard the waves that 
 dashed up against the rock— Castle Rock— a hundred feet be- 
 low; for this part of the old house of the Fitzgeralds had been 
 built two hundred years before on the very edge of the great 
 
268 VIVE L'EMPEREUR. 
 
 t 
 
 rock wall beneath it. From window to ocean was one sheer, 
 plumb line. 
 
 Meanwhile Talleyrand was thinking; — sugar, it seemed, did 
 not tempt her. One must then try wholesome medicine. Yes! 
 He must be decided, he must even be — alas! rough. There was 
 a moment's grave stillness, and Norah placed her hand on the 
 table, on the papers that were the only proofs of her strange 
 history. 
 
 "Gentlemen, there is little to say. I have to tell you that 
 cannot go with you. My decision is quite made. " 
 
 Then the Marshal stood and thundered in his big voice that 
 had the note of tragedy heard in most French voices. 
 
 "It is not that it can be thus, this. The nation, La France, 
 it demands you. The armies of La France for their leader, for 
 the blood of the great Emperor, wait; it must that you come. 
 Rise, rise to the so great time! I, I, your soldier, your general, 
 I, your army will protect you. There is not of danger. Child 
 of Napoleon, advance! Seize your right! Fear not the danger! 
 Look to the gloirel Have not of fear!" 
 
 Norah looked at him, her eyes burning dark. 
 
 "You do not understand me. Marshal. I am not afraid of 
 anything." And they all felt, looking at her with a thrill of 
 admiration, that it was the bare truth. 
 
 "One sees, then, it is the spirit of her father, that which one 
 hoped for, the same is the rock we split," groaned the Mar- 
 shal. 
 
 "Mademoiselle, your Highness," said Talleyrand. And at 
 once every face, every eye was drawn toward that wonderful 
 presence. * 'It is not often that high heaven forgets its dignity 
 so far as to put a nation's safety into the hands of a young girl, 
 and when it does, I should think that even high heaven, ' ' with 
 a sneer, "must see the error. At this time it happens by an 
 accident of birth that you have the power to do an enormous 
 amount of harm. It seems difficult to make you understand 
 that it is not your inclinations that concern us, interesting as 
 those may be. Whether or not you care to be an Empress of 
 France is immaterial. You are, with all respect, a figure-head— 
 understand that. I, and others who know how, will rule 
 France. But the figure-head is absolutely necessary. We will 
 have it— you. Understand me. Mademoiselle. We will have 
 
VIVE l'empereur. 269 
 
 you. You may delay us a day— two days, but the end will be 
 the same. You belong to us, and we will have you. Appreciate 
 at once, and spare us further trouble, that France and Talley- 
 rand are stronger than you. ' ' 
 
 **Yes, have the courage. Mademoiselle, voire Majeste," 
 shouted the Marshal, "have the courage of your illustrious perel 
 Show now the will of Napoleon at us! Let not obstacles de-de- 
 deflect. But let one see now that the power of the will of the 
 mighty Emperor is — is in you!" 
 
 Norah's clear, full tones fell like a sharp line of sunlight 
 through a storm-cloud. "I will show it, M. le Marechal — M. le 
 Prince. If I have the will of Napoleon, it is this way I will 
 show it, that I will not be forced into doing what I choose not 
 to do. I will not give up my home and the man I love for a 
 country, a cause that is nothing to me. I will not be an em- 
 press. I care nothing at all for glory and ambition. My life is 
 my own. I will keep both — or give them to whom I choose. I 
 do not believe that I am necessary to France. France will do 
 very well without poor Norah Fitzgerald. I have decided." 
 
 Talleyrand, pale with exhaustion, stirred to a deeper anger 
 than he had, perhaps ever known before, but still unable to be- 
 lieve his ears, to accept defeat, caught at one of the quick sen- 
 tences that fell so rapidly upon each other. 
 
 * 'The man you love, ' ' he quoted. ' *I might have guessed so 
 mnch. Cherchez Vhomme is true at times also, then. I gather 
 the interesting news that there is then a man whom you love, 
 Mademoiselle, better than an empire?" 
 
 "You are right. There is a man— whom I love better— than 
 an empire." 
 
 Then she seemed suddenly to feel the packet of papers under 
 her fingers. 
 
 "It is these that are the proofs of my identity?" 
 
 The Prince, his blood chilling, thinking, planning fast, paid 
 little attention to the question. "It is these. Mademoiselle," 
 he answered curtly, not looking at her. 
 
 "Without these you would be powerless to put me on the 
 throne?" She asked it of the Marshal this time. 
 
 "But yes, your Highness," the Marshal said, seeing no object 
 in this side issue. "But yes. your Highness. Those papers 
 there, so little, it is they that without what one could not make 
 
270 VIVE l'empereur. 
 
 your Highness the Emper — Imperatrice. It is impossible. It 
 is that it is your throne you hold at the hand." 
 
 Quick as a fla&h Norah turned. The window-sill was low. In 
 the stillness one could hear the waves dashing high, for the 
 wind had risen, against the Rock. In a second, with one toss of 
 her hand, the priceless papers were flying far out through the 
 air into the ocean. 
 
 Then she turned back again, quietly, and faced them, her head 
 high, her look calm. 
 
 "The throne of France is no longer held in my hand or in 
 yours, " she said. 
 
Queen of Sheba 
 
 B}- EDITH TATUM. 
 
 with special permission of Ihe Author and Publishers— Good Housekeepin| 
 
Queen of Sheba, 
 
 OUEEN of Sheba sat on the cabin porch in a dejected little 
 heap. Twilight had settled down over "the quarters," 
 making long black shadows in the Big House orchard, 
 and with it Queen of Sheba 's sorrow returned even greater than 
 before. It had lifted a little during the day; she had been so in- 
 terested peeping through the orchard fence for an occasional 
 glimpse of "young marster, " his pretty wife or little girl. 
 
 The Big House was occupied for the first time in Queen of 
 Sheba 's short life, and two months ago she would have been so 
 happy, but now—! The little black face quivered with the 
 misery of her thoughts. Just a few weeks before Christmas 
 she had gone to town with Unc' Big Jerry, perched way on the 
 top of a bale of cotton. She had never been to town before and 
 the wonderful sights and sounds filled her with speechless de- 
 light. But it was in the afternoon on their way home that she 
 had seen It, and she had not been happy one minute since. "It" 
 was a brilliant-cheeked, gayly-dressed doll hanging in the win- 
 dow of a toy store. Queen of Sheba caught her breath sharply. 
 For just an instant she thought perhaps it was an angel or a real 
 live white child, but a second glance told her what it was. She 
 had seen a doll, once; the overseer's little girl had one, but it 
 was cloth. She had thought it very beautiful, but this one was 
 past her adjectives of description. The blue eyes and carmine 
 lips seemed to smile at her invitingly, and Queen of Sheba 
 longe'd for possession with all the strength of her starved soul. 
 
 That night the doll filled all her dreams and for days the 
 thought of it never left her. She was a lonely, silent child, 
 with the religious imaginative characteristics of her race inten- 
 sified, and she would sit for hours on the cabin porch, her mind 
 filled with the radiant vision, until Aun' Judy declared to Unc' 
 Big Jerry that the child was "sholy conjured." 
 
 Then one Sunday Queen of Sheba heard the circuit rider 
 preach and one thing he said made her sit up very straight with 
 a sudden illuminating idea. He was explaining something he 
 had read from the Bible, that whatever any one prayed for, be- 
 
 (19) 
 
274 QUEEN OF SHEBA. 
 
 lieving they would get it, the Lord would surely give it to them. 
 Like a ray of sunshine in a darkened room came the thought— 
 the Lord would send her a doll! So from that time on until 
 Christmas she would creep down behind the currant bushes by 
 the orchard fence just after twilight and pray the best she 
 could for the Lord to send her a doll at Christmas. 
 
 The disappointment and shock to her childish faith had been 
 terrible. Christmas morning had come but brought no doll. All 
 day she hoped and longed, but night came and still there was no 
 doll. She had thrown herself down on the dry grass and cried 
 out her grief to the cold earth and silent stars ! She vowed she 
 would pray no more. It was a lie about God caring for every- 
 body and hearing them pray! After that her misery was 
 measureless for several days. But when * 'young marster" 
 moved back she had shared the common interest and excitement, 
 now she was lonely, and she wanted a doll. 
 
 Queen of Sheba sat on the steps and looked up at the far- 
 away stars. 
 
 ''Hebben sho' mus' be er fur place," she mused; "de angels 
 comes er way down and takes de pra'rs, and dey is er sight er 
 pra'rs; den hit would take de Lord er long time to answer 'em 
 all; en er co'se he'd haf ter answer de white chullen fust. Mebbe 
 he jes ain' hed time ter git 'round ter me. I sho' do want er 
 doll bad, ' ' she concluded plaintively. 
 
 After a while as the twilight deepened she got up and went 
 around the cabin down behind the bushes by the orchard fence. 
 Dropping on her knees she began to pray aloud. Two figures 
 pacing the orchard paths heard the sound of her voice, and 
 drawing near, listened: 
 
 "Lord-er-Mighty," the prayer began, *'I knows yer is mighty 
 busy, so I's gwine ter give yer another chance. Lord, I sho' 
 does want er doll, en I knows you has er plenty of 'em up in 
 hebben, so please jes drop me one down h'yer. Hit won' 
 matter ef it's onede li'l' angels been er playin' wid; ef it's got er 
 arm er laig gone, I won' min', I'd love er jes as good. I know 
 you would er sont it befo' but you mus' ter been busy sendin' 
 dolls ter the li'l' white chullen. Lord-er-Mighty, I'll 'scuse you 
 fer dat ef you'll jes hurry up an' send it now. I promise I won' 
 be sassy er 'bout it, I'll jes play lak she am meh li'l' mistis en 
 I's her mammy, en I'll tak good keer of her, " 
 
QUEEN OF SHEBA. 275 
 
 "Queen-er-Sheby— You Jerry Ellen Queen er Sheby Fagie 
 Lewis, come h'yer ter me dis instunce!" came in a shrill voice 
 from the cabin. 
 
 "I got ter go now, Lord-er-Mighty; Aun' Judy's callin' me, 
 but please don' fergit meh doll," and the little figure rose from 
 its knees and sped like a black streak through the dusk. 
 
 On the other side of the orchard fence two people stood with 
 clasped hands looking into each other's eyes, and one pair of 
 eyes had tears in their brown depths. The next morning soon 
 after daylight Queen of Sheba was aroused from slumber by 
 Aunt Judy's voice raised in shrill exclamation: 
 
 "Now, people, what yer reckon this h'yer doll is er setting on 
 my front po'ch fer?" At the word doll. Queen of Sheba's heart 
 began to beat almost to suffocation. So her prayer had been 
 answered at last! She dressed herself with trembling fiingers 
 and pushed her way through the excited group on the porch. 
 There, lying in a little carriage, was an exquisite baby doll, a- 
 sleep. Golden curls peeped out from under the close-fitting lace 
 cap, and the dainty long clothes were covered with a profusion 
 of lace. Queen of Sheba's black face shone; she had never 
 dreamed of owning anything half so beautiful. 
 
 *'Now what yer reckon this doll am er settin' h'yer fer?" 
 Aunt Judy demanded again. 
 
 "Hit's mine," Queen of Sheba essayed timidly. 
 "Yourn! Now h'yer dat, won't yer? An' how come it yourn 
 I'd lak ter know?" 
 
 "De-de-de Lord sont it ter me." The voice was even more 
 timid than before. 
 
 "De Lord? Big Jerry, you come right h'yer! Did you h'yer 
 dis chile? She say de Lord sont her dis doll. Ain' I been er 
 tellin' yer de chile wuz conjured? You jes better go rat now 
 an' git de hoo-doo doctor. 
 
 "Queen-er-Sheby, " she continued, turning to the trembling 
 figure by the doll's carriage, "honey, dot doll sholy do belong 
 ter young marster's li'l' gal. De Lord ner nobody else ain' 
 gwine er send you black nigger no doll." 
 
 "Judy, chile," Big Jerry interposed mildly, ''h'yer's a cyard 
 
 tied to the contraption's arm which mought 'splanify 'bout it." 
 
 The card was tied to the doll's wrist and there was something 
 
 written on it. Aunt Judy bent down and examined it carefully. 
 
76 QUEEN OF SHEBA. 
 
 2 
 
 ''H'yer you, Jerry Mazilow Nockerman Gritter, you run 
 
 down an' telFHalie Marindy ter come'up h'yer jes as quick as 
 she kin and read dis cyard. ' ' 
 
 It seemed an age to Queen of Sheba before Halie'^Marinda ar- 
 rived upon the scene, and she held her breath while the card was 
 untied and handed over. Halie Marinda spelled it out to herself, 
 then looked from one to the other in blank amazement. 
 
 "Well, dis do beat all!" she gasped. **Dis h'yer writin' say 
 *Fer de Queen-ob-Sheby fum de Lord!' " 
 
 The assembled multitude stood in awed silence, but the Queen 
 of Sheba with a delighted cry snatched the doll from its carriage 
 and held it close^to her heart. 
 
 ''Nebber min', mammy's li'l' lamb! Mammy gwine tek her 
 baby away fum dese big mouf, wall-eyed niggers. Dere now, 
 nebber min', bress hits li'l' heart!" and she marched majestical- 
 ly down the steps, around the corner of the cabin, and disap- 
 peared behind the currant bushes by the orchard fence. 
 
The Heart of Eric. 
 
 By ELMORE EI.EIOTT PEAKE. 
 
 (By special permission of the Author and Publishers— McClure's Magazine.) 
 
The Heart of Eric. 
 
 TUBERCULOSIS of the hip, the doctor said, was the little 
 fellow's trouble. One of his legs was shrunken and use- 
 less. Yet he got about between a pair of crutches with 
 astonishing speed and sure-footedness. He could play nearly- 
 all the games that the other boys played. In fact, he was a 
 ringleader in the matter of sports; and the Ashley House, the 
 shabby, third-rate hotel of which his father was proprietor and 
 his mother cook, was headquarters for the youth of that end of 
 the village. 
 
 But he did not always choose to play with the boys, even when 
 he was well; and he was very, very often not well. Sometimes 
 he chose instead to bask in the sun on the steps of the porch. 
 What thoughts went trooping through his queer little brain as 
 he sat there so still, hour after hour, with his thin, wasted 
 hand on the back of his faithful dog? The young Congrega- 
 tional minister, looking out of his study window, across the 
 street, often asked himself the question. Sad thoughts, surely, 
 for often slow tears would roll down his cheek. If no one was 
 near, he would let them roll unheeded; but if any one ap- 
 proached, even his mother, he would fiercely dash the tell-tale 
 drops away, call his dog, and hobble swiftly down the street. 
 
 It was difficult, of course, to offer him sympathy. Indeed, no 
 one but Mr. Barnes, the young minister, had ever attempted it; 
 and he only after a long, patient and cautious approach, like a 
 besieging army's, to the citadel of Eric's confidence. 
 
 "Won't you tell me what the trouble is, Eric?" 
 
 The child's face was still streaked with dried tears, but he an- 
 swered in a cold little voice: "I ain't in no trouble." 
 
 * 'I fear you are. You seem to have been crying. Trouble is 
 nothing to be ashamed of. It comes to all of us, and it usually 
 brings tears with it. I shouldn't care much for the man or boy 
 who didn't cry sometimes. The very greatest men that I know 
 of have their troubles. And they cry, too. " 
 
 ''Not the President of the United States?" 
 
280 THE HEART OF ERIC. 
 
 "Yes, even the President of the United States. So won't you 
 please tell me what your trouble is?" 
 
 Eric sat very still for a moment. His fingers gradually 
 tightened over the hair on Watch's back. 
 
 "You'd laugh!" 
 
 "My dear little boy, I never laughed at any one in trouble in 
 my life." 
 
 "Mine ain't real trouble, I guess. But I— I git to thinkin' 
 about the birds — and the sunshine — and the trees. I wonder 
 where the wind comes from — and where the flowers go when 
 they die — and if God kin hear prayers that ain't said in 
 churches — and if dogs go to heaven — and if crippled boys kin fly 
 as fast, when they git to be angels, as if —as if their legs was 
 straight. ' ' 
 
 As best he could, Mr. Barnes cleared away the unconscious 
 little philosopher's perplexities — which, after all, were but the 
 eternal problems of humanity stated in their simplest form. 
 
 Eric loved to sit in the dingy hotel oflfice and hear the boarders 
 —mostly rough laborers — tell stories over their evening pipes. 
 He joyed above all, though, in the tales of Swan Swanson, who 
 for half a lifetime, had sailed before the mast and seen strange 
 sights in many lands. No bed for Eric until Swan rose and 
 knocked the ashes from his pipe, One night, after Swan had 
 fairly outdone himself, Eric could not sleep at all. At last, with 
 hot face and throbbing pulse, he reached for his crutches, 
 slipped to the floor, and lit a candle. Watch, who always slept 
 across the foot of the bed, needed no invitation to follow, for 
 the two were inseparable. Stealthily they climbed the stairs 
 and traversed the bare hall above as far as Swan Swanson 's 
 door, which they entered. 
 
 "Say, Swan, could a crippled man that was handy on his 
 crutches git a job on one of them whalin' ships?" 
 
 "Well, I don't know." 
 
 "Do they allow dogs on them ships, Swan?" he asked hesitat- 
 ingly. 
 
 "Yes— a good dog. But you wasn't thinkin' of taking Watch, 
 was you? By the time you are a man, lad, Watch will be plumb 
 played out with old age." 
 
 The child gave the man a quick, startled glance. 
 
 "Why, don't dogs live as long as people?" 
 
THE HEART OF ERIC. 281 
 
 "Well, come to think of it, they do — sometimes— as long as 
 some people. Didn't you ever hear people say, they hadn't 
 seen somebody for a dog's age? If you did, you know they 
 meant a mighty long time. 
 
 **And you think Watch will live as long as me?" 
 
 "I shouldn't be surprised if he did. No, I shouldn't be at all 
 surprised. Now run back to bed, lad, or you'll ketch cold. " 
 
 "I want to take him along. Swan, because him and me under- 
 stand each other so good. And if a whale should smash a boat 
 with his tail, and throw me into the water, like it did you, 
 Watch would swim out and git me, and fight the sharks off." 
 
 When Eric, on the morning of his ninth birthday, awoke and 
 reached for his crutches, his hand paused in mid air. For there 
 in the corner stood, in place of the old onts, a brand-new, 
 brightly-varnished, nickel-mounted pair. Nothing else in the 
 dull room could compare with their glittering splendor, and the 
 boy gazed at them long and lovingly. 
 
 "Watch," cried Eric ecstatically, "them's new crutches and 
 they cost a lot of money, you can bet! You and me'll go down 
 to the post-office the first thing to show 'em off." 
 
 He was still further pleased to learn at breakfast that the 
 crutches were a birthday gift from Mr. Barnes. Eric liked the 
 young minister, in spite of his good clothes and soft, white 
 hands. He couldn't measure up with Swan Swanson, of course; 
 no one could. 
 
 Eric had soon collected a train of admiring youth, Vv^hom he 
 led to their favorite rendezvous — the back yard of the hotel. 
 Here, among ash-heaps and garbage-barrels, they were allowed 
 to handle the new crutches, and in some instances to try them, 
 after being warned not to scratch the varnish. 
 
 "What do you suppose they cost?" a^ked one boy, enviously. 
 
 "Oh, ten dollars." 
 
 Whew! Do you suppose them plates is solid silver?" 
 
 Eric gave him a withering look. 
 
 "Do you suppose they would put anything but solid silver on 
 crutchesV he demanded, scornfully. 
 
 "Just the same, I'd sooner have a pair of good legs." 
 
 Eric winced, for he was very sensitive about his deformity; 
 but he had not become captain of this wild crew by chance, and 
 he well knew how to quell any mutiny. 
 
282 THE HEART OP ERIC. 
 
 "That shows your sense," said he quickly. Anybody kin have 
 a good pair of legs. I could myself. I could have my leg fixed 
 for five dollars by a doctor — and I've got the five, too," he 
 added, with unblushing mendacity. "But I wouldn't do it. I'd 
 sooner have crutches. I kin do more things on 'em. I kin go 
 up stairs six different ways. Besides," he added, conclusively, 
 "the greatest general that ever lived used to have crutches, and 
 he had a million soldiers in his army, and none of 'em was as 
 good a fighter as he was. ' ' 
 
 "What was his name, Eric?" asked Reddy Maginnis, in a 
 hushed voice. 
 
 "I'll tell you some time, Red, when we're alone," answered 
 Eric, darkly. 
 
 On Sunday it happened that Eric was sick. Sickness was 
 nothing unusual with him. He spent, perhaps, a fourth of his 
 days in bed; so that often, when the boys came whistling and 
 trilling around the old hotel for their chieftain, of a morning, 
 Mr. Ericson would step to the door and say, "Eric ees sick to- 
 day, boys." 
 
 The insidious disease did not release Eric as soon as usual this 
 time. It was a week before his wan face and limp body ap- 
 peared in the sunshine on the porch steps again. In the mean- 
 time some one had sent him a wagon — a little beauty, painted 
 bright red, with steel spokes and rubber tires and real shafts to 
 fit a dog or goat. It was a sight to gladden any boy's heart, 
 and for two or three days, while still too weak to play, Eric 
 would sit and look at it by the hour. 
 
 But Eric craved a four-footed-steed— and of course the lot fell 
 to Watch. Watch was not an amiable animal. At Eric he had 
 never even growled, from puppyhood, and he now stood as docile 
 as a lamb while the boy, with infinite pains, harnessed him with 
 odds and ends of rope into the new wagon. 
 
 Nevertheless, Watch had no mind to learn new tricks, even 
 for Eric's sake; and when he grew tired of the sport he wriggled 
 out of the flimsy harness. At the same time he quite uninten- 
 tionally overturned the wagon, bringing his driver into rough 
 contact with the cinder path. Eric, still weak and irritable, 
 lost his temper; and then it was that, for the first time in his 
 little boy's life, he raised his crutch and struck his belovec^ dog. 
 
 Watch, yelping more from astonishment than from pain, went 
 
THE HEART OF ERIC. 283 
 
 flying through the gate and down the street. Eric, overwhelmed 
 by the enormity of his act, stood rooted to the spot, with blood- 
 less cheeks. Then, with an inarticulate cry of remorse, he too 
 hurried through the gate. 
 
 The dog was not in sight. With crutches sharply thumping 
 the board sidewalks, Eric hastened from one of the dog's haunts 
 to another, while his shrill, anxious "Hyuh, Watch! hyuh. 
 Watch!" was lifted at every corner and lane. But no Watch 
 with wagging tail and glad eyes came bounding toward him. 
 For the twentieth time the boy's lips quivered, tears stood in 
 his eyes, and his little breast ached with the pain which is as 
 old as humanity itself. He was now in the outskirts of the vil- 
 lage. Some boys- among whom he recognized Reddy Maginnis 
 — were playing ball in a field near by. 
 
 "Boys, Watch is lost!" said he, huskily. ''Help me find 
 him." 
 
 Few things so delight the heart of a boy as a hunt, and the 
 erstwhile boy players were off with a shout. But fast as they 
 ran, the little cripple kept up with them, although his heart felt 
 as if it would burst. Not even a barbed-wire fence on which he 
 tore his clothes and lacerated his hand and dug a deep gash in 
 one of his beautiful crutches, detained him much longer than it 
 did the others. 
 
 At last, however, the band concluded that it would be better 
 for them to separate and take different routes. Thus, left 
 alone, and sick in body as well as soul, Eric dragged himself 
 homeward. Watch had not yet returned, or he would have been 
 lying on the steps waiting for his little master. For a moment 
 the child lost heart; then, struck with anew thought, he quickly 
 crossed the street and rang the parsonage bell. 
 
 "Mr. Barnes, Watch is lost. Do you think you could help me 
 find him? I hate to ast you, but Swan Swanson is at work in 
 the brick-yard, and I don't know what else to do." 
 
 The dusty, drooping little figure, with its flushed face and 
 weary eyes, and the tremulous, appealing voice, went straight 
 to the young man's heart. 
 
 "Indeed I will help you. But you must go home and rest. 
 You are all tired out now. Don't worry any more. Even if we 
 don't find Watch at once, I haven't a doubt he will come back 
 all right. He loves you too much to stay away from you long. " 
 
284 THE HEART OF ERIC. 
 
 "Mr. Barnes, he'll never come back!" the child burst out 
 tragically. "I struck him! And he loved me the best of any- 
 body on earth. Oh, I wish't I was dead!" 
 
 His heart poured out its long-repressed grief in pitiful, 
 wrenching sobs. But they brought relief after a little; and, 
 leaving Eric on the hotel steps, the minister hastened off on his 
 search. For an hour he tramped about the village, making in- 
 quiries here and there. He met several of Eric's scouts, but 
 learned nothing from them until, on one of the outlying streets, 
 Reddy Maginnis came flying down the dusty road, with his hat 
 in his hand and his red hair streaming wildly out behind. Some- 
 thing about him made Barnes halt, with a sense of uneasiness. 
 
 "Mr. Barnes," shouted the lad, ''Watch is dead! That man 
 that just moved into Hitchcock's house — from the country — 
 caught him suckin' eggs, and— shot him." 
 
 "Dead!" said Barnes, with a sickness creeping over him. 
 
 "Yes sir— and layin' right in the road, with his head full of 
 buck-shot." 
 
 It was true. When Barnes reached the scene a group of 
 eager little boys had gathered round the dead dog. 
 
 "Boys," said the minister gravely, "this will be a sad day for 
 Eric, and I don't want any of you to tell him of this. I want to 
 tell him myself. If you see him before I do, send him to me at 
 my study. ' ' 
 
 "Oh, say, Mr. Barnes — look!" excitedly cried one of the boys. 
 
 Barnes turned with the others. Minister of the gospel that 
 he was, familiar with grief and death, he felt for the moment 
 like shirking his duty and flying. For, far down the street, a 
 grotesque little figure between crutches was coming rapidly 
 toward them. 
 
 Barnes did not attempt to stop and prepare Eric, for it was 
 plain from his agitated manner that he already knew all. As 
 he came up, gasping for breath and reeling from fatigue, the 
 circle sympathetically opened for him, and the next moment he 
 stood in the presence of his beloved dead. He did not speak or 
 move. His eyes simply glazed in inexpressible horror; a deadly 
 pallor spread over his face; his little scrawny throat worked 
 spasmodically; the fingers on the cross-pieces of the crutches 
 twitched and relaxed their hold; and then he fell, senseless, 
 across the dog's body. 
 
THE HEART OF ERIC. 285 
 
 'Sorrowfully, they carried him home and put him to bed. But 
 he did not rally as he should have. For days he lay in a stupor— 
 a merciful stupor. Some spring within him had snapped; the 
 incentive to live was gone. Watch's death, the doctor said, 
 had merely hastened the inevitable. One afternoon when he 
 was brighter than usual, Eric said: 
 
 "Do you remember, Mr. Barnes, what you said oncet about 
 dogs goin' to heaven?" 
 
 **Yes." 
 
 **Are you still sure that they go?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 Eric gazed at the ceiling with an illuminated face, as if he 
 were even then looking into heaven and saw his dear dog. 
 
 "Do you thinkr Watch knows now, sir, how sorry I am that I 
 struck him?" 
 
 "I haven't a doubt of it, my boy." 
 
 "Oh, I'm so glad, so glad!" exclaimed the little fellow, with 
 a seraphic smile. "Will it be long, do you think, before I go?" 
 
 "To heaven, do you mean?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "I hope it will be. You are too young to die. You don't 
 want to go yet, do you?" 
 
 "Yes. I want to see Watch. " 
 
 "But do you want to leave the rest of us behind— your play- 
 mates, and father and mother, and me?" 
 
 "No. I wish't you could all go 'long. Me and Watch would 
 like it better with you all there. Mebbe I'd stay here longer, 
 but Watch might git tired of waitin' for me, and think that I 
 wasn't sorry that I hit him." 
 
 He closed his eyes for a moment, for even talking wearied 
 him. Then he went on: "If a boy had told some lies just a 
 little while before he died, do you think the angels would let 
 him into heaven?" 
 
 "What ones have you told?" 
 
 "I told the boys I could git my leg fixed for five dollars, and 
 that I'd sooner be lame than to have good legs. And I told 'em 
 I knew a general that was lame, and had a million soldiers — but 
 I don't." 
 
 "I don't think that will keep you out of heaven, especially if 
 you are sorry, ' ' answered Mr. Barnes, with moist eyes. 
 
 "I am sorry," said Eric, dreamily. 
 
286 THE HEART OF ERIC. 
 
 He soon fell asleep and the minister slipped away. The next 
 morning as he crossed the street to make his usual inquiry, he 
 saw a pale-haired, weeping woman fastening some white crepe 
 to the front door of the hotel. 
 
The Trembling Brave. 
 
 By VJCIA CHAMBERLAIN. 
 
 (Special Permission of Author and Publishers — Everybody's Magazine. 
 
The Trembling Brave. 
 
 GORDON Keen was entertaining a house party at his bunga- 
 low on the top of a mountain. Keen was a motor en- 
 thusiast, with nerves of whip-cord. His great delight 
 was to send his motor car down the mountain road at break-neck 
 speed. This was extremely dangerous, for on one hand was the 
 mountain wall, and on the other a sheer drop into the canon 
 below. 
 
 Among the house party were Caroline Fore and Martin Reeve, 
 whose engagement had recently been announced. Gordon Keen 
 was also in love with Caroline. He considered Martin Reeve as 
 lacking in nerve, and it was with a certain grim determination 
 in his mina that he invited Caroline Fore and Martin Reeve to 
 ride down the mountain with him in his motor car, on their way 
 to the station the following morning. 
 
 The practical topic of conversation among the guests was the 
 race which was to occur a few days later at Monterey and in 
 which most of the men w^ere to take part. The guests trooped 
 out of the dining-room, chatting and laughing, leaving Caroline 
 alone with her host. "She tremendously admired Keen and 
 everything Keen stood for. Above all, she admired his love of 
 danger. ' ' 
 
 **How like you it is to live on a mountain and have a motor to 
 go up and down with," she said. "Do be nice, if we are to go 
 down in your car to-morrow. ' ' 
 
 He looked at her hard a moment. Then — "If I am nice, shall 
 I wear your ribbons at the track?" 
 
 "No, you goose, of course not; they belong somewhere else." 
 
 "Where?" 
 
 "Martin." 
 
 "But he doesn't enter." 
 
 "Why are you so exasperating? The machine is at Monterey. 
 You know it. It is already on the books. " 
 
 "The machine, of course. But Reeve doesn't drive it." 
 
 "Who told you?" 
 
 "Why, everyone knows. I supposed, of course — at least it is 
 odd you didn't—" he hesitated. 
 
 "That I didn't hear?" "Oh, no! I'm not curious about Mar- 
 tin's personal affairs. I'm sorry he isn't going to enter; but if 
 
 (20) 
 
290 THE TREMBLING BRAVE. 
 
 he is not, I am sure he has a good reason. And what more is 
 there to want to know?" 
 
 "Well, some of your more curious, or less trustful sisters, 
 would like to know what Reeve's good reason is. They've been 
 giving some pretty tall guesses, too, along that line. You see 
 we're a simple-minded pack of people, and to us the only two 
 reasons for not entering a race are a broken neck or — the fear 
 of breaking it." 
 
 Caroline was burning within. The palms of her hands felt 
 like flame. She wanted to strike him. Then she sank down in 
 her chair again as if her knees were suddenly too weak to sup- 
 port her. Martin Reeve had opened the door and come into the 
 room. 
 
 "Hullo," said Keen, "a rescuing party?" 
 
 "Something of that sort." 
 
 The two men looked at each other disagreeably. Caroline 
 rose and moved toward the door. 
 
 "Just a moment, Caro," Keen said. "Don't go, for I am 
 going myself. ' ' He nodded to Reeve and walked away across 
 the room as if he had meant to in the first place. 
 
 Martin Reeve looked after him until the door had closed upon 
 him. Then he took Caroline by the chin, and looked intently 
 into her troubled face. "Confound his impertinence! What has 
 that Johnny been saying to you?" 
 
 "Martin, he has been saying you weren't going to drive your 
 own machine in the races." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 "Is it true?" 
 
 "True as the Gospel." 
 
 "Why can't you enter, Martin?" 
 
 "Why, I can't tell you, Caro." 
 
 "Why not? I would tell you anything. " 
 
 ' 'You are a different person altogether. You know I would 
 do anything in the world for your sake — if it were possible. " 
 
 "But it isn't for my sake. Martin, you don't know, you can't 
 imagine what they're saying about you! They are saying that— 
 that— they are saying that you are afraid." 
 
 He blushed as if she had struck him. The fine muscles around 
 his mouth quivered; but for a long moment he neither spoke nor 
 moved, nor looked at her. 
 
 "Keen told you that?" 
 
THE TREMBLING BRAVE. 291 
 
 "Oh, yes, I know he is jealous; but he didn't mean to lie, 
 Martin. He believes it, and it isn't Keen alone. I've seen 
 looks myself, and heard allusions that I haven't understood, 
 until he spoke. They are all talking—" 
 
 "They say — what say they?— let them say!" 
 
 "But you can't, you must not let them." 
 
 "What do you want me to do?" 
 
 "The race," she insisted. 
 
 His fixed smile, that had never left his face, widened, grow- 
 ing- slowly dreadful. 
 
 "I can't, Caro, because what they say is true. I'm afraid, 
 afraid— do you hear?" 
 
 "You mean you're afraid you won't win?" 
 
 "No, no, no! Afraid of the races! Afraid of breaking my 
 neck— or some other man's! Afraid as I always am, and al- 
 ways will be— only this time I can't go through with it!" 
 
 "Martin, you don't know what you're saying." 
 
 "Don't I? I've lived all my life with it. It's you who don't 
 know what you're saying, child; for you don't know what fear 
 is. And yet, it isn't such an unusual thing as you seem to 
 think." 
 
 "It's horrible, horrible!" she said passionately. 
 
 "Good God! you don't suppose I'm proud of it! I've dreaded 
 that you should know this; and yet I knew you would have to 
 hear some day; for it's part of me." 
 
 "It isn't! Don't say it— I won't hear it!" 
 
 "We can't dodge it. At least I can't. And I know it too 
 well to make any mistake. I've had it at school, in the football 
 and the fights; I've had it on the hunting field with every fence 
 and ditch. In times and places where you and the rest knew 
 nothing but pleasure, I knew fear. I've made myself go 
 through with things because, God knows, I've wanted to be like 
 all the rest of 'em! But these last— these cursed machine 
 races! I thought I could stand them; but I can't! I can't!" 
 
 It seemed she must be listening to the horror of a dream, 
 must be looking at a stranger, and not the man she loved. Oh, 
 anything to wipe away that dreadful look, and bring back the 
 old, brave eyes! 
 
 "But, Martin, there is no— danger!" 
 
 "Danger? What do you know about danger, you and these 
 
292 THE TREMBLING BRAYE. 
 
 others? Why, you Hve on it! You're drugged with it! Dan- 
 ger! There is more danger in an instant of those races than in 
 a normal man's whole life! And that's why you're all so ex- 
 cited, why you've talked of nothing else all the week. You're 
 so eager to see men killed. Ugh! They're eager to kill them- 
 selves. They love it — that speed that keeps your nerves on the 
 rack. Have you ever felt it? Can you dream what it's like — 
 that top speed when the car begins to rock, and your throat 
 closes, and your eyes swim, and you know a pebble in the course 
 will kill you! That awful speed splitting into eternity!" 
 
 ''Martin!" 
 
 "Ah, but it is true, child— every word of it." 
 
 "Even if it is, a man must go through with it." 
 
 "A man must do what he can, Caro; and what you ask is im- 
 possible." 
 
 "But if you only wouldn't think about it, and imagine it, but 
 just do it!" 
 
 "Do what? Kill some decent fellow who likes to live as much 
 as I do — or kill myself?" 
 
 * 'Yes, I would rather you did that, than — the other. ' ' 
 
 "Well, child, I wouldn't. And I won't. You don't know 
 what you are asking." 
 
 She made a gesture of despair. "But if you don't, what will 
 become of us — now that I know! How can we ever go on, as we 
 have? How can anything ever be the same with us — with this 
 awful thing between us! I can't bear this thing should separate 
 us, and yet it will! I can't help feeling as I do!— that a man 
 must be brave before he is anything else. ' ' 
 
 "It's awful to me to think of losing you. If you're ashamed 
 of me, I can't ask to keep you. But think, think, Caro. 
 There's a deal more in life than this one thing. If you would 
 give me the chance I might take as good care of you as a 
 braver man." 
 
 She heard the hall door close upon him, leaving her alone. 
 
 The groaning of the oak branches awakened her in the morn- 
 ing. The autumn sky was hard and briUiant. There came a 
 great knock at her door, and Keen's voice proclaiming the hour 
 as seven, and the rate of a touring-car on a mountain road as 
 thirty miles an hour. She and Martin were going down the 
 mountain with Keen, they three together, And all the way, for 
 
THE TREMBLING BRAVE. 293 
 
 thirty miles, she would have those two men together before her. 
 It was too late for any one of them to back out now, or how the 
 tongues would clack. She could hear the chuff, chuff, chuffing 
 of the waiting motor. 
 
 "All ready," said Keen. 
 
 She had meant to get into the back seat with Martin, but, 
 without a word, he handed her into the front, and she was pas- 
 sive. 
 
 "Train at eight-fifty," said Keen, "and it's now seven-thirty- 
 five. Fifteen minutes to shake off the dust at the station. 
 Enough time?" Then they were off . 
 
 "Do you often meet teams?" Caroline shouted. 
 
 "You never can tell. There's something now." The horn 
 gave hoarse warning. A buggy sidled into the ditch, and the 
 motor passed with a thread between its outer wheel and the 
 canon. 
 
 She thrilled, elated by the hairbreadth danger, but Martin 
 Reeve winced. Keen glanced at him. 
 
 "Sharp work," said Keen, "but, good Lord, there are always 
 chances! They can hear us coming for ten miles. And we're 
 all right as long as the car sticks together. " 
 
 Suddenly, Martin spoke. "What's the matter with your 
 car?" 
 
 "Nothing, unless it's too fast for you." 
 
 Caroline cried indignantly: "No. Gordon, he's right. There 
 is something queer. Listen! Something's rattling." 
 
 The brakes went back. The speed went down and down. 
 Keen, listening, grunted. 
 
 "You've a fine ear!" and he clambered out. 
 
 "Chain link gone to glory— almost. Lucky we didn't try a 
 turn with it." He disappeared head and shoulders beneath the 
 car. 
 
 Caroline looked at Martin. He sat forward on the edge of his 
 seat, as if he were ready at a moment's notice to spring out, 
 
 Keen, underneath the car, swore mightily. 
 
 "What's the matter?" Caroline called. 
 
 "Confounded knife! Scratched myself!" 
 
 Then Keen crawled out again, dusty and scowling. "Link's 
 all right. I only broke my good knife off short, and scratched 
 myself. Confound it! I'd rather have my throat cut than be 
 
294 THE TREMBLING BRAVE. 
 
 scratched. ' ' He whipped' on gloves and goggles, and clambered 
 back again. "Only ten minutes to shake the dust off, " he said. 
 The scowl was still upon his forehead, and she knew something 
 more than a broken knife was vexing Gordon Keen. And yet 
 where was the trouble? The machine had lost its spring, and 
 went with a sick, uncertain motion. She felt Keen's calm, 
 nerveless poise stiffening beside her. He did not answer when 
 she spoke to him. It was as if he did not hear. If there 
 was something the matter with the car, why did he go en driv- 
 ing it like this? She felt helpless, frightened. Instinctively her 
 eyes went back for help to Martin. He was leaning forward on 
 his seat, as if he was ready at an instant's notice to spring up. 
 Gordon Keen had settled low as if he braced himself for some- 
 thing. She felt him gathering himself together as if for some 
 terrible effort. He shot the wheel around with both his hands, 
 and a sound escaped his lips that was like a groan. 
 
 Then Catoline screamed. A crushing weight had fallen on 
 her shoulder— the dead weight of a man's body. She seized the 
 wheel; the brakes shrieked; the car slid groaning, and came to a 
 halt in a cloud of dust and steam. She cried: He's dead! 
 Martin, take him off me! There's blood!" 
 
 Martin was already in the seat beside her. There was blood 
 on Caroline's white blouse; blood on Martin's coat; blood on the 
 bright handles of the steering-gear. Martin ran his hand down 
 Keen's sleeve, and that was soaked; then drew off his gauntlet. 
 It was full like a cup. 
 
 "God!" said Martin. He looked so white she thought for a 
 moment he was going to faint, but he threw the glove into the 
 road, and cut away the scarlet rag around the wrist. 
 
 "It's an artery! Take my silk handkerchief and help me 
 here." His face was still as white as chalk; and as he knotted 
 the silk where the red rag had been, she saw his hands were 
 trembling. He took a light steel tool from the kit bag, and 
 thrust it through the knot, and twisted, twisted, twisted it until 
 the flesh sprang up on either side the silk, and the thick red line 
 paled and ran languidly in drops. He stooped and put his ear 
 to Keen's lips and felt his heart. "He's just alive now. Get 
 me the whiskey out of my pocket. Hold his arm — up straight— 
 now— there!" For Keen had swallowed, stirred a little, and 
 groaned. The great circle of mountains was all around them, 
 
THE TREMBLING BRAVE. 295' 
 
 empty of help as the sky. Caroline looked up the long road be- 
 hind them, and whispered, ''We can never get him there alive. " 
 
 "Up? Good Lord, no! There's no doctor. We must get him 
 down." 
 
 "Twenty miles!" she cried out. 
 
 "It'll be quickest. We must put him in the back seat. Help 
 me, Caro. Take his feet." 
 
 She was obeying him instinctively, though all her sense cried 
 out that he was mad. "Martin, it's too far! We never can!" 
 
 He answered, "Hold his arm up whatever happens— and hold 
 fast." 
 
 He ran around to the front of the machine. She saw him 
 stoop and pick up and put on Keen's bloody glove which, with 
 such horror, he had flung away. The car began to sigh and 
 quiver beneath her, and then move slowly forward along the 
 grade again; the speed moved up from first to second. The dust 
 began to stream up in a long white funnel behind them. The 
 note of speed was rising. The fire on the sky-line, the thicket 
 beside the road went flashing past faster, faster. The grade 
 was swimming away beneath them faster, faster. It was speed 
 by which Martin meant to bridge that distance — she understood 
 at last — not speed in spurts, over level reaches — but speed con- 
 tinuous, on dangerous descents, and rocky turns, and narrow 
 bridges, wherever the road led. She saw the first turn, just be- 
 low them, sharp as a whip. She leaned in, and braced for what 
 was coming, and round they went, an inch from the blue lip of 
 the canon. They were speeding on the down grade again. She 
 was kneeling on the floor of the car with her hand on the heart 
 of a dying man. The car was roaring through the great moun- 
 tain silence, shrieking, trembling on the turns, but sticking to 
 the mountain road as if some will had overridden destiny. But 
 the girl now dared not look on either side of her. She looked at 
 the pale head lying in her lap, and wondered how much longer 
 life would stay in it. And then the horn began. Her mind flew 
 back to the danger she had forgotten. It did not seem to her 
 that chance could be so cruel as to throw an obstacle in their 
 path. And yet the horn was roaring against the streaming 
 wind, and the mountain walls took up the long note of warning 
 and flung it down the canon, warning, warning human obstacles, 
 somewhere miles below, that speed held the road. Then her 
 
296 THE TREMBLING BRAVE. 
 
 heart was in her throat, for something like a short black snake 
 was crawling into sight around the bend of the bluff. It 
 crawled slowly in the middle of the road. The horn of the motor 
 seemed suddenly gone mad; the machine abated not a notch of 
 speed; but the short black snake moved neither right nor left, 
 but crawled on, stubborn and dumb. It was growing larger, it 
 was filling up all the road. For a moment it seemed as if the 
 motor would not slacken. Then all the brakes went down. It 
 shrieked, slid, skidded with a dreadful sideways motion, and 
 stopped. 
 
 She saw Martin, risen waist-high above the seat, gesticulating 
 passionately with trembling hands. His voice rose high, 
 
 "A dying man, a dying man!" 
 
 She heard the words repeated in many voices. She looked 
 down at the head upon her knees. She looked up at the team 
 that towered over them; she wanted to shriek to Martin to push 
 it over into the cafion and go on. But then she saw he had got 
 out of the motor, and heard men arguing together: "Can't do 
 it. Can't drive perpendicular!" Then Martin's voice again: 
 "Give me the outside— I'll show you!" 
 
 Then a man was at the mules' heads, and another at the wheel 
 hub. The wood team began to creak forward, to tilt up, up, as 
 the wheel climbed the embankment. Then Martin's face, gray 
 with dust, for an instant looking down at her. "Sit left, and 
 hold fast," he said; and she saw he was in the car again, and the 
 car was moving back up the road. She knew what was coming 
 then; she put her arms around Gordon Keen, and fixed her eyes 
 on that white space of road between the wood team and the 
 canon. It grew narrower, narrower, until it danced before her 
 like a thread. They paused. She closed her eyes — then, with a 
 swoop, down they went again. She heard avalanches of earth 
 and stones pitching into the cafion below; white hills and round 
 tree tops rolled away beneath her— and they were out on the 
 long broad road that streamed away into the valley. The wind 
 began to rise and shriek in her ear. The hoarse hoo-hooing of 
 the horn grew into one prolonged voice of terror. The car be- 
 gan to rock, to rock; and she knew this was the awful speed 
 that Martin had spoken of, but couldn't remember where he had 
 said it went. Then something snatched her breath out of her 
 lips, and put it back, and snatched it out. Color vanished. 
 
THE TREMBLING BRAVE. 297 
 
 Sight and touch were gone. She did not know if she were on 
 earth or air, and all sound ran into one, roaring, roaring, roar- 
 ing. 
 
 It came to her that this speed led to eternity. Then that one 
 sound broke into many, and she saw a broad, harsh light, and 
 shut her eyes, and something stopped. She thought it was her 
 life. She opened her eyes, and saw a long white line of steps. 
 People were coming down those steps. Faces were all around 
 her. A heavy weight was lifted from her lap. Then she her- 
 self was lifted from the tonneau to the white steps, but she 
 would not let them lead her through the door. For the man in 
 the motor had risen, trembling like a creature spent; had taken 
 a wavering step from the car to the ground, and stood there 
 with his dark head drooping forward. She did not see the 
 whispering circle around them. She put her arms around him. 
 She sobbed. ''Oh, you can talk! You can talk! What does it 
 matter as long as you've done this!" 
 
 The doctor, coming out on the veranda, said: "Tell them, as 
 soon as they are disengaged, that I think we'll pull him 
 through." 
 
The Bishop's Candlesticks. 
 
 By VICTOR HUGO 
 
 From I^es Miserables, 
 
The Bishop's Candlesticks 
 
 FOR stealing a loaf of bread to save his sister from starva- 
 tion Jean Valjean was sentenced to prison. For trying to 
 escape he was resentenced, and after spending nineteen 
 years in the prison he is at last liberated. He entered the prison 
 in despair; he came out of it gloomy. 
 
 About an hour before sunset a man travelling on foot entered 
 the little town of D. It was Jean Valjean. The man must have 
 been walking all day, for he seemed very tired. He proceeded 
 to the inn which was the best in the town and entered the 
 kitchen, but his ill-fame had preceded him and the landlord bade 
 him **Be off." He tried another inn, but with the same result. 
 At length he applied to the jailer of the town for a night's lodg- 
 ing, but was refused even there. Worn out with fatigue, and 
 hopeless, he sat down on a stone-bench in the square. Here a 
 good woman saw him and advised him to go to the Bishop of 
 D's house and ask for supper and a bed. 
 
 On this evening the Bishop of D. had finished his work and 
 gone into the dining-room, where his sister and Madame 
 Magloire, their house-keeper, were preparing supper. The two 
 women were chatting together. It appears that while going to 
 purchase something for supper, Madame Magloire had heard 
 that an ill-looking fellow, a suspicious vagabond, had arrived in 
 the town, and that it would be well for people to close their 
 houses and lock their doors. Turning to the Bishop his sister 
 said: "Brother, do you hear what Madame Magloire is saying?" 
 
 **I vaguely heard something, well, what is it? are we in any 
 great danger?" 
 
 Then Madame Magloire told her story over again, ending tri- 
 umphantly, ' 'Yes Monseigneur, it is so, and some misfortune 
 will occur in the town this night; every body says so." 
 
 At this moment there was a rather loud rap at the front door. 
 "Come in," said the Bishop. 
 
 The door was thrown wide open and a man entered. He had 
 his knapsack on his shoulder, his stick in his hand, and a rough 
 bold expression in his eyes. The firelight fell on him and he was 
 
302 THE bishop's candlesticks. 
 
 hideous. He leaned both hands on his stick, looked in turn at 
 the two aged females, and the old man and then said in a loud 
 voice, "Look here: My name is Jean Valjean, I am a galley- 
 slave and have spent nineteen years in the bagne. T was liber- 
 ated four days ago, and started for Pontarlier, which is my 
 destination. This evening in coming into the town I went to the 
 inn but was sent away in consequence of my yellow passport; I 
 went to another inn and the landlord said to me 'Be off. ' It 
 was the same everywhere and no one would have any dealings 
 with me. I went to the prison but the jailer would not take me 
 in. I got into a dog's kennel but the dog bit me andd rove me 
 off as if it had been a man; it seemed to know who I was. I 
 went into the fields to sleep in the starlight, but there were no 
 stars. I thought it would rain, and as there was no God to pre- 
 vent it from raining I came back to the town to sleep in a door- 
 way; I was lying down on a stone in the square when a good 
 woman pointed to your house and said: *Go and knock there.' 
 What sort of a house is this? Do you keep an inn? I have 
 money, I will pay. I am very tired and frightfully hungry— 
 will you let me stay here?" 
 
 ''Madame Magloire," said the Bishop "you will lay another 
 knife and fork." 
 
 The man advanced three paces; "Wait a minute, that will not 
 do. Did you not hear me say that I was a galley-slave — a con- 
 vict—and have just come from the prison? Here is my pass-port 
 which turns me out wherever I go. This is what is written in 
 it 'Jean Valjean, a liberated convict, has remained nineteen 
 years at the galleys. The man is very dangerous.' All the 
 world has turned me out and are you willing to receive me?" 
 
 ' 'Madame Magloire, ' ' said the Bishop, ' 'You will put clean 
 sheets on the bed in the alcove. ' ' Then he turned to the man, 
 "Sit down and warm yourself, sir; we shall sup directly and 
 your bed will be got ready while we are supping. ' ' The man 
 understood this at once. He began stammering, "Is it true? 
 What? You will let me stay, you will not turn me out? a con- 
 vict? You call me 'sir.' I shall have supper; a bed with mat- 
 tresses and sheets like everybody else? For nineteen years I 
 have not slept in a bed; you really mean that I am to stay? 
 Besides I have money and will pay. You keep an inn, do you 
 not?" 
 
THE bishop's candlesticks. 303 
 
 "I am," said the Bishop, *'a priest living in this house." "A 
 priest, oh yes what an ass I am; I did not notice your cassock." 
 
 While he was speaking, Madame Magloire came in with the 
 two silver candle-sticks which she placed on the table, ready 
 lighted. 
 
 "Monsieur le Cure," said the man, "You are good and do not 
 despise me; you receive me as a friend and light your wax-can- 
 dles for me, and yet I have not hidden from you whence I came 
 and that I am an unfortunate fellow." The Bishop gently 
 touched his hand. "You need not have told me who you were: 
 this is not my house, but the house of Christ. This door does 
 not ask a man who enters whether he has a name, but if he has 
 a sorrow. Why do I want to know your name? Besides before 
 you told it to me you had one which I knew. " 
 
 "Is that true? you know my name?" 
 
 "Yes," the Bishop answered, "you are my brother." 
 
 "Monsieur le Cure, I was very hungry when I came in, but 
 you are so kind that I do not know at present what I feel: it 
 has passed over. ' ' 
 
 The Bishop looked at him and said, "You have suffered great- 
 ly?" "Oh, the red jacket, the cannon ball on your foot, a plank 
 to sleep on, the blows, the dungeon and the chain-gang; the 
 very dogs are happier." "Yes," said the Bishop, "you have 
 come from a place of sorrow. Listen to me; there will be more 
 joy in heaven over the tearful face of a repentant sinner than 
 over the white robes of one hundred just men. If you leave that 
 mournful place with thoughts of hatred and anger against your 
 fellow-men you are worthy of pity; if you leave it with thoughts 
 of kindliness, gentleness and peace, you are worth more than 
 any of us. ' ' 
 
 The Bishop's face suddenly assumed the expression of gayety 
 peculiar to hospitable natures. "To table" he said eagerly as 
 he was wont to do when any stranger supped with him, and he 
 bade the man sit down on his right hand. The Bishop said grace 
 and then served the soup himself according to his wont. 
 
 The man ate with frightful voracity; after supper the Bishop 
 engaged him in conversation for an hour or so, and then taking 
 up one of the silver candle-sticks he said, "I will lead you to 
 your room, sir. ' ' 
 
 As they passed through the Bishop's room Madame Magloire 
 
304 THE bishop's candlesticks. 
 
 was putting away the silver in the cup-board over the bed-head. 
 
 "I trust you will pass a good night" said the Bishop; * 'tomor- 
 row before starting you will drink a glass of milk fresh from 
 our cows." 
 
 The man suddenly turned to the Bishop and exclaimed hoarse- 
 ly, "What, you really lodge me so close to you as that? have 
 you reflected fully? who tells you that I am not a murderer?" 
 
 The Bishop answered, "That concerns God." Then he 
 stretched out two fingers of his right hand and blessed the man 
 and returned to his bed-room. 
 
 Toward the middle of the night Jean Valjean awoke. As he 
 could not go to sleep again, he began thinking. Many thoughts 
 occurred to him, but there was one which expelled all the rest. 
 The thought of the silver overwhelmed him. It was there, a 
 few yards from him. When three o'clock struck he rose, hesi- 
 tated for a moment and listened. Then he rose, opened his 
 knapsack and took from it something which resembled a short 
 iron bar. He took the bar in his right hand and walked towards 
 the door of the Bishop's room. The door was ajar— the Bishop 
 had not shut it. Jean Valjean heard from the end of the room 
 the calm and regular breathing of the sleeping Bishop and a 
 moon-beam passing through the tall window suddenly illumined 
 the Bishop's face. He was sleeping peacefully, his entire face 
 was lit up by a vague expression, it was more than a smile, it 
 was almost a radiance. There was almost a divinity about him. 
 Jean Valjean was standing in the shadow with his crow-bar in 
 his hand. It seemed as if he were hesitating between two 
 abysses — the one that saves — and the one that destroys, — he 
 was ready to dash out the Bishop's brains or to kiss his hand. 
 All at once Jean Valjean walked rapidly along by the bed with- 
 out looking at the Bishop and went straight to the cup-board. 
 He took out the silver, put it in his knapsack, leaped through 
 the window into the garden— bounded over the wall Hke a tiger 
 and fled. 
 
 The next morning as the Bishop was descending the stairs 
 Madame Magloire came running in crying, "The silver! the 
 silver! Good Lord! it is stolen and that man who came last night 
 is the robber. ' ' 
 
 Just then there was a knock at the door. "Come in" said the 
 Bishop. The door opened and a strange and violent group ap- 
 
THE bishop's candlesticks. 305 
 
 peared on the threshold, — three men were holding a fourth by 
 the collar. The three men were gendarmes; the fourth was 
 Jean Valjean, The Bishop advanced rapidly toward them. 
 "Ah, there you are!" he said to Jean Valjean, "I am glad to see 
 you again. Why, I gave you the candle-sticks too, which are 
 also silver and will fetch you two hundred francs; why did you 
 not take them away with the plate?" 
 
 Jean Valjean opened his eyes and looked at the Bishop with 
 an expression which no human language could render. 
 
 "Monseigneur, " said the corporal, ''What this man told us 
 was true then? We met him and as he looked as if he were run- 
 ning away we arrested him. He had this silver—" 
 
 "And he told you that it was given to him by an old priest at 
 whose house he passed the night? I see it all— and you brought 
 him back here? That is a mistake." 
 
 "In that case we can let him go?" 
 
 "Of course." Jean Valjean tottered back— "Is it true that I 
 am at liberty?" 
 
 "Yes you are let go — don't you understand?" 
 
 "My friend," said the Bishop, "before you go take your 
 candle-sticks." Jean Valjean was trembling in every limb. 
 "Now," said the Bishop, "go in peace." Then turning to the 
 gendarmes he said, "Gentlemen, you can retire. They did so. 
 Jean Valjean looked as if he were on the point of fainting. The 
 Bishop walked up to him and said in a low voice— "Jean Val- 
 jean, my brother, you no longer belong to evil but to good. I 
 have bought your soul of you. I withdraw it from black 
 
 thoughts and the spirit of perdition and give it to God. ' ' 
 
 ******** 
 
 Very early the next morning when the mail carrier was pass- 
 ing through the street where the Bishop's house stood, he saw a 
 man in the attitude of prayer kneeling on the pavement in front 
 of the Bishop's house. It was Jean Valjean, 
 
 (21) 
 
The First Quarrel, 
 
 TENNYSON. 
 
The First Quarrel. 
 
 WHEN Harry and I were children, he called me his own 
 little wife; 
 I was happy when I was with him, an' sorry when he 
 was away. 
 An' when we played together, I loved him better than play. 
 He workt me the daisy chain, he made the cow-slip ball, 
 He fought the boys that were rude, an' I loved him better than 
 
 all. 
 Passionate girl tho' I was, an' often at home in disgrace, 
 I never could quarrel with Harry, I had but to look in his face. 
 
 There was a farmer in Dorset of Harry's kin, that had need 
 Of a good stout lad at his farm; he sent and the father agreed: 
 So Harry was bound to the Dorsetshire farm for years an' for 
 
 years; 
 I walked with him down to the quay, poor lad, an' we parted in 
 
 tears. 
 The boat was beginning to move, we heard them a' ringing the 
 
 bell, 
 **ril never love any but you, God bless you, my own little 
 
 Nell." 
 
 And years went over till I that was little had grown so tall. 
 The men would say of the maids, "Our Nelly's the flower of 'em 
 
 all," 
 I didn't take heed o' them, but I taught myself all I could 
 To make a good wife for Harry when Harry came home for 
 
 good. 
 
 Often I seemed unhappy, and often as happy too. 
 For I heard it abroad in the fields ''I'll never love any but you," 
 ''I'll never love any but you," the morning song of the lark, 
 *'I'll never love any but you," the nightingale's hymn in the 
 dark. 
 
 And Harry came home at last, but he looked at me sidelong and 
 shy, 
 
310 THE FIRST QUARREL. 
 
 Vexed me a bit, till he told me that so many years had gone by, 
 I had grown so handsome and tall that I might ha' forgot him 
 
 somehow— 
 For he thought — there were other lads — he was feared to look 
 
 at me now. 
 
 Hard was the frost in the field, we were married o' Christmas 
 
 day, 
 Married among the red berries, an' all as merry as May; — 
 Those were the pleasant times — my house an' my man were my 
 
 pride. 
 We seemed like ships in the channel a' sailing with wind and 
 
 tide. 
 
 But work was scant in the Isle, tho' he tried the villages round, 
 So Harry went over the Solent to see if work could be found; 
 And he wrote "I ha' six weeks' work, little wife, so far as I 
 
 know; 
 I'll come for an hour tomorrow, an' kiss you before I go." 
 
 So I set to righting the house, for wasn't he coming that day? 
 An' I hit on an old deal box that was pushed in a corner away. 
 It was full of old odds and ends, an' a letter alorig with the rest, — 
 I had better ha' put my hand in a hornet's nest. 
 
 ''Sweetheart," this was the letter— this was the letter I read— 
 "You promised to find me work near you, an' I wish I was 
 
 dead — 
 Didn't you kiss me an' promise? you haven't done it my lad. 
 An' I almost died o' your going away, an' I wish that I had. " 
 
 I too wish that I had — in the pleasant times that had past, — 
 Before I quarreled with Harry — my quarrel— the first — and the 
 
 last. 
 For Harry came in, an' I flung him the letter that drove me 
 
 wild, — 
 An' he told it me all at once, as simple as any child; 
 ''What can it matter my lass, what I did wi' my single life? 
 I ha' been as true to you as ever a man to his wife." 
 Then he patted my hand in his gentle way, "Let by-gones be. " 
 "By-gones! you kept yours hushed when you married me." 
 "Ah Harry, my man, you had better ha' beaten me black and 
 
 blue 
 
THE FIRST QUARREL. 311 
 
 Than ha' spoken as kind as you did, when I was so crazy wi' 
 
 spite, 
 **Wait a little my lass, I am sure it will all come right." 
 
 An' he took three turns in the rain, an' I watched him an' when 
 
 he came in, 
 I felt that my heart was hard, he was all wet through to the 
 
 skin, 
 An' I never said "Off with the wet," I never said, "On with 
 
 the dry" 
 So I knew my heart was hard when he came to bid me good- 
 
 by: 
 "You said that you hated me, Ellen, but that isn't true you 
 
 know, 
 I'm going to leave you a bit — you'll kiss me before I go?" 
 
 "I had sooner be cursed than kissed," I didn't know well what 
 
 I meant, 
 But I turned my face from him an' he turned his face an' he 
 
 went. 
 
 And then he sent me a letter, "I've gotten work to do. 
 You wouldn't kiss me my lass, an' 1 never loved any but you, 
 I am sorry for all the quarrel an' sorry for what she wrote, 
 I ha' six weeks' in Jersey an' I go tonight by the boat." 
 
 An' the wind began to rise, an' I thought of him out at sea, 
 An' I felt I had been to blame, as he was always kind to me, 
 "Wait a little, my lass, I am sure it will all come right," * * * 
 An' the boat went down that night — the boat went down that 
 night. 
 
Glengarry School Days, 
 
 By RAIvPH CONNOR. 
 
 By special permission of the Author. 
 
Glengarry School Days. 
 
 THE two years of Archibald Munro's regime were the 
 golden age of the school; and now his last examination 
 day had come, and the whole Section was stirred with 
 enthusiasm for their master, and with grief at his departure. 
 It was a day of delightful excitement. 
 
 The school opened . an hour later than ordinarily, and the 
 children came all in their Sunday clothes, the boys feeling stiff 
 and uncomfortable, and the girls with hair in marvelous frizzes 
 and shiny ringlets. Soon after ten the sleighloads began to ar- 
 rive. Within an hour the little school-house was packed. On 
 the platform were old Peter MacRae, the young minister and 
 his wife, and the school-teacher from the ''Sixteenth." 
 
 First came the wee tots. Then up through the Readers till 
 the Fifth was reached. ''Fifth class!" In due order the class 
 marched up to the chalk line on the floor. By an evil fortune, 
 the reading for the day, was the dramatic "Marco Bozarris. " 
 The master shivered as he thought of the possibility of Thomas 
 Finch, with his stolidly monotonous voice, being called upon to 
 read the thrilling lines recording the panic-stricken death-cry of 
 the Turk: "To arms! They come! The Greek! The Greek!" 
 
 "Will you take this class, Mr. MacRae?" said the master, 
 handing him the book. The dominie was not interested in the 
 art of reading. 
 "Well, Ranald, let us hear you," he rather growled. 
 *Tage 187, Marco Bozarris." 
 
 "At midnight in his guarded tent, 
 The Turk lay dreaming of the hour 
 When Greece, her knee in suppliance bent, 
 Should tremble at his power." 
 And so on steadily to the end of his verse. 
 "Next!" 
 
 The next was "Betsy Dan." Now, Betsy Dan was very red 
 in hair and face, very shy and very nervous, and always on the 
 point of giggles. It was a trial to her to read on ordinary days, 
 
316 GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS. 
 
 but to-day it was almost more than she could bear. To make 
 matters worse, sitting immediately behind her, and sheltered 
 from the eye of the master, sat Jimmie Cameron. Jim.mie was 
 always on the alert for mischief, and ever ready to go off into 
 fits of laughter. Just now he was busy pulling at the strings of 
 Betsy Dan's apron. 
 
 Very red in the face, Betsy Dan began her verse. 
 
 **At midnight in the forest shades, 
 
 Bozarris — " 
 
 Pause, while Betsy Dan clutched behind her. 
 
 " — Bozarris ranged — " 
 
 (Tchik! tchik!") a snicker from Jimmie in the rear. 
 
 **— his Suliote band, 
 
 True as the steel of—" 
 
 ("im-im,") Betsy Dan struggled with her giggles. 
 
 "Elizabeth!" The master's voice is stern and sharp. 
 
 Betsy Dan bridles up, while Jimmie is momentarily sobered 
 by the master's tone. 
 
 ''True as the steel of their tried blades. 
 
 Heroes in heart and hand. 
 
 There had the Persian thousands stood—") 
 
 (Tchik! tchik! tchik!") It is becoming too much for poor 
 Betsy Dan, whose lips begin to twitch. 
 
 "There-" 
 
 ("im-im, thit-tit-tit") 
 
 "—had the glad earth (tchik!) drunk their blood. 
 
 On old Pl-a-a-t-t-e-a-'s day." 
 
 Whack! whack! 
 
 "Elizabeth Campbell!" The master's tone was quite terrible. 
 
 "I don't care! He won't leave me alone. He's just-just 
 (sob) pu-pulling at me (sob) all the time." 
 
 By this time Betsy's apron was up to her eyes, and her sobs 
 were quite tempestuous. 
 
 "James, stand up!" Jimmie slowly rose, red with laughter, 
 and covered with confusion. 
 
 "I-I-I di-dn't touch her! I-I-I was only just doing that," and 
 Jimmie touched gingerly with the point of his finger the bows 
 of Betsy Dan's apron-strings. 
 
 "Oh, I see. Do you think that was very nice? Now, then," 
 
GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS. 317 
 
 continued the master, facing Jimmie round in front of Betsy 
 Dan, **tell Elizabeth you are sorry." 
 
 Jimmie stood in an agony of silent awkwardness. 
 
 "Are you sorry?" 
 
 "Y-e-e-s." 
 
 "Well, tell her so." 
 
 Jimmie drew a long breath and braced himself for the ordeal. 
 He stood for a moment or two, working his eyes up shyly from 
 Betsy Dan's shoes to her face, caught her glancing at him from 
 behind her apron, and began, "I-I-Fm (tchik! tchik!) sorry," 
 (tchik), Betsy Dan's look was too much for the little chap's 
 gravity. 
 
 A roar swept over the school house. Even the grim dominie's 
 face relaxed. 
 
 "Go to your seat and behave yourself," said the master, giv- 
 ing Jimmie a slight cuff. "Now let us go on. " 
 
 "Ay! and I would wish very much that Mrs. Murray would 
 conduct this class." 
 
 Mrs. Murray, seeing that it would please the dominie, took 
 the book, with a spot of color coming in her delicate, high-bred 
 face. 
 
 "You must all do your best now, to help me," she said, with 
 a smile that brought an answering smile flashing along the line. 
 Even Thomas Finch allowed his stolid face a gleam of intelli- 
 gent sympathy.j 
 
 "Now, Thomas," said the minister's wife, sweetly, and 
 Thomas plunged heavily. 
 
 "They fought like brave men, long—" 
 
 "Oh, Thomas, I think we will try that man's verse again, 
 with the cries of battle in it, you know. I am sure you can do 
 that well." 
 
 It was all the same to Thomas. So, with an extra knitting of 
 his eyebrows, he set forth doggedly. 
 
 ' * An-hour-passed-on-the-Turk-awoke- that-bright-dream-was- 
 his-last." 
 
 "He-woke-to-hear-his-sentries-shriek-to-arms- they- come-the 
 Greek-the-Greek-he-woke— ' ' 
 
 "But Thomas, wait a minute. You see you must speak these 
 words, 'To arms! They come!' differently from the others. 
 
318 GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS. 
 
 These words were shrieked by the sentries, and you must show 
 that in your reading." 
 
 "Speak them out, man," said the minister sharply. 
 
 ''Now, Thomas," said Mrs. Murray, "try again. And re- 
 member the sentries shrieked these words, 'To arms!' and so 
 on." 
 
 Thomas squared his shoulders, spread his feet apart, added a 
 wrinkle to his frown, and a deeper note of desperation to his 
 tone, and began again. 
 
 ' 'An- hour- passed- on - the - Turk - awoke- that bright- dream- 
 was — " 
 
 The master shuddered. 
 
 "Now, Thomas, excuse me. That's better, but we can im- 
 prove that yet. " Mrs. Murray was not to be beaten. "See," 
 she went on, "each phrase by itself. 'An hour passed on: the 
 Turk awoke. ' Now, try that far. ' ' 
 
 Again Thomas tried, this time with complete success. The 
 visitors applauded. 
 
 "Ah, that's it, Thomas. I was sure you could do it." 
 
 "Now we will get that 'sentries shriek.' See, Thomas, like 
 this a little," and she read the words with fine expression. 
 
 "You must put more pith, more force into those words, 
 Thomas. Speak out, man!" interjected the minister, who was 
 wishing it was all over. 
 
 ' 'Now, Thomas, I think this will be the last time. You have 
 done very well, but I feel sure you can do better. ' ' 
 
 The minister's wife looked at Thomas as she said this, with 
 so fascinating a smile that the frown on Thomas' face deep- 
 ened into a hideous scowl, and he planted himself with a do-or- 
 die expression in every angle of his solid frame. Realizing the 
 extreme necessity of the moment, he pitched his voice several 
 tones higher than ever before in his life inside a house and be- 
 fore people, and made his final attempt. 
 
 ' ' An-hour-passed-on : the-Turk-awoke : 
 
 That-bright-dream-WAS-his-last. ' ' 
 
 And now, feeling that the crisis was upon him, and confusing 
 speed with intensity, and sound with passion, he rushed his 
 words, with ever-increasing speed, into a wild yell. 
 
 "He-woke-to-hear-his sentries- shriek-to-arms-they-come-t/ie- 
 Greek THE-GREEK!" 
 
GLENGARRY SCHOOL DAYS. 319 
 
 There was a moment of startled stillness, then, "tchik! 
 tchik!" It was Jimmie again, in a vain effort to control a 
 paroxysm of snickers at Thomas' unusual outburst. 
 
 It was like a match to powder. Again the whole school burst 
 into a roar of uncontrollable laughter. Even the minister, the 
 master, and the dominie, could not resist. The only faces un- 
 moved were those of Thomas Finch and the minister's wife. 
 He had tried his best, and it was to please her, and she knew it. 
 
 A swift, shamed glance round, and his eyes rested on her 
 face. That face was sweet and grave as she leaned toward him, 
 and said: "Thank you, Thomas. That was well done. And if 
 you always try your best like that, Thomas, you will be a great 
 and good man some day. ' ' 
 
 Her voice was low and soft, but in the sudden silence that fol- 
 lowed the laughter it thrilled to every heart in the room, and in 
 Thomas' face, stolid and heavy, a new expression was strug- 
 gling for utterance. "Here, take me," it said; "all that I 
 have is thine," and later days brought the opportunity to 
 prove it. 
 
Wallace Forever, 
 
 By JANE PORTER. 
 
 From The Scottish Chiefs. 
 
 (22) 
 
Wallace Forever, 
 
 IT was the summer of 1296. The war which had devastated 
 Scotland was then at an end. Certain Scottish noblemen 
 had signed the bond of submission to a ruthless conqueror, 
 purchasing life at the price of all that makes life estimable- 
 liberty and honor. But the spirit of one brave man remained 
 unsubdued, and Sir William Wallace, with his beautiful bride, 
 withdrew from the world and sought refuge in the tower of 
 Ellerslie. 
 
 But on one fatal night Wallace in defence of a friend slew the 
 nephew of the governor of Lanark, and was obliged to flee for 
 his life. He left Marion, his bride, in the care of Halbert, a 
 faithful old servant. But a large party of English soldiers 
 headed by the Governor of Lanark, arrived early one morning, 
 at Ellerslie. The great hall door was burst open by a band of 
 soldiers, and in a moment afterwards they appeared, with 
 shouts, bringing in the trembling Marion. 
 
 "Woman!" cried the leader, **I am the governor of Lanark, 
 and on the peril of your life, I command you to answer me this 
 question. Where is Sir WiUiam Wallace, the murderer of my 
 nephew? Answer me, on your life. ' ' 
 
 Lady Wallace remained silent. 
 
 ''Speak, woman! If you persist to refuse, you die." 
 
 "Then I die," replied she. 
 
 "What! Speak once for all! Declare where Wallace is con- 
 cealed, or dread my vengeance. " 
 
 The horrid steel gleamed across the eyes of the unhappy 
 Marion; unable to sustain herself, she sunk on* the ground. 
 
 ' 'Kneel not to me for mercy ! I grant none, unless you con- 
 fess your husband's hiding-place." 
 
 A momentary strength darted from the heart of Lady Wal- 
 lace to her voice. "I kneel to Heaven alone, and may it ever 
 preserve my Wallace from the fangs of Edward and his 
 tyrants!" 
 
 "Blasphemous wretch!" cried the infuriate Heselrigge; and 
 
324 WALLACE FOREVER. 
 
 in that moment he plunged his sword into her defenceless 
 breast. 
 
 She opened her dying eyes and articulated: "My Wallace— 
 to God — " and with the last unfinished sentence her pure soul 
 took its flight to regions of eternal peace. 
 
 A terrific stillness was now in the hall. Not a man spoke, a 
 stern horror marking each pale countenance. Heselrigge, drop- 
 ping his blood-stained sword on the ground, perceived that he 
 had gone too far, and he addressed the soldiers in an unusual ac- 
 cent of condescension:— "My friends, we will now return to 
 Lanark to-morrow you may come back, for I reward your ser- 
 vices of this night with the plunder of Ellerslie. " 
 
 "May a curse light on him who carries a stick from its 
 grounds!" exclaimed a veteran. "Amen!" murmured all the 
 soldiers, with one consent; and, falling back, they disappeared, 
 one by one, leaving Heselrigge alone; while the faithful Halbert 
 fled to the mountains to bear the terrible tidings to his master. 
 Sir William Wallace embraced him and eagerly demanded: 
 
 "What of my wife, Halbert? She whose safety and remem- 
 brance are now my sole comfort!" 
 
 "Oh, my dear lord! she remembers you where best her 
 prayers can be heard. She kneels for her beloved Wallace, be- 
 fore the throne of God!" 
 
 "Halbert! what would you say? My Marion — speak! tell me 
 in one word, she lives!" 
 
 "In heaven! 'My Wallace' were the last words her angel 
 spirit uttered as it issued from her bleeding wounds. " 
 
 The cry that burst from the heart of Wallace, as he started 
 on his feet at this horrible disclosure, seemed to pierce through 
 all the recesses of the glen, and was re-echoed from rock to 
 rock. 
 
 Wallace looked around with a wild countenance. "Halbert, 
 tell me," he cried, "who had the heart to aim a blow at that 
 angel's life?" 
 
 "The governor of Lanark," replied Halbert. "He came at 
 the head of a band of ruffians, and seizing my lady, commanded 
 her on the peril of her life, to declare where you were concealed. 
 My lady persisted to refuse him information, and in a deadly 
 rage he plunged his sword into her breast." 
 
 "Great God!" exclaimed Wallace, "dost thou hear this mur- 
 
WALLACE FOREVER. 325 
 
 der? Give me power, Almighty Judge! to assert thy justice!" 
 
 "My gracious master," cried Halbert, ''here is the fatal 
 sword; the blood on it is sacred, and I brought it to you." 
 
 Wallace took it in his hand and murmured, "Marion! Marion!" 
 Then looking up with a terrific smile, "Beloved of my soul! 
 never shall this sword leave my hand till it has drunk the life- 
 blood of thy murderer!" 
 
 "What is it you intend, my lord?" cried Halbert. "What can 
 you do? Your single arm — " 
 
 "I am not single — God is with me. I am his avenger. Now 
 tremble, tyranny! I come to hurl thee down!" 
 
 He sprang on a high cliff projecting over the mountain valley, 
 and blowing his bugle with a few notes of the well-known 
 . pibroch of Lanarkshire, was answered by the reverberations of 
 a thousand echoes! At the loved sounds which had not dared to 
 visit their ears since the Scottish standard was lowered to Ed- 
 ward, the hills seemed teeming with life. Men rushed from 
 their fastnesses, and women eagerly followed, to see whence 
 sprung a summons so dear to every Scottish heart. Wallace 
 stood on the cliff, like the newly aroused genius of his country: 
 his long plaid floated afar, and his glittering hair, streaming on 
 the blast, seemed to mingle with the golden fires which shot 
 from the heavens. 
 
 "Scotsmen!" cried Wallace, waving the fatal sword, which 
 blazed in the glare of the northern lights, like a flaming brand, 
 "behold how the heavens cry aloud to you! I come to call you 
 to vengeance. I come in the name of all ye hold dear, to tell 
 you the poniard of England is unsheathed. With this sword, 
 last night, did Heselrigge, the English tyrant of Lanark, break 
 into my house, and murder my wife!" 
 
 The shriek of horror that burst from every mouth, interrupted 
 Wallace. "Vengeance! vengeance!" was the cry. 
 
 Wallace sprang from the cliff into the midst of his brave 
 countrymen. "Follow me, then, to strike the mortal blow." 
 
 "Lead on!" cried a vigorous old man. "I drew this stout 
 claymore last in the battle of Largs. Life and Alexander was 
 then the word of victory: now, ye accursed Southrons, ye shall 
 meet the slogan of Death and Lady Marion.'" 
 
 "Death and Lady Marion!" was the peahng answer that 
 echoed from the hills. 
 
326 WALLACE FOREVER. 
 
 Wallace again sprang on the cliffs. His brave peasants fol- 
 lowed him; and taking their rapid march by a near cut, they 
 started for Lanark Castle, the home of the Heselrigge. 
 
 Here slept the governor, and with a shout of death, in which 
 the tremendous slogan of his men now joined, Wallace rushed 
 upon the guard that held the northern gate. He reached the 
 door of the governor. All the mighty vengeance of Wallace 
 blazed in his face and seemed to surround his figure with a 
 terrible splendor. With one stroke of his foot he drove the 
 door from its hinges, and rushed into the room. 
 
 What a sight for the now awakened and guilty Heselrigge. 
 It was the husband of the defenceless woman he had murdered, 
 come with uplifted arm and vengeance in his eyes! 
 
 "Marion! Marion!" cried Wallace, as he threw himself 
 towards the bed and buried the sword, yet red with her blood, 
 deep into the heart of her murderer. A fiend-like yell from the 
 slain Heselrigge told him his work was done. "Vengeance is 
 satisfied," cried Wallace, and as he spoke he snapped the sword 
 in twain. 
 
 The men, with a shout of triumph exclaimed, "So fall the 
 enemies of Sir William Wa-lla-ce!" 
 
 "Rather so fall the enemies of Scotland!" cried he: "from 
 this hour Wallace has neither love nor resentment but for her. 
 Heaven has heard me devote myself to work our country's 
 freedom or to die. Who will follow me in so just a cause?" 
 
 "All!— with Wallace forever!" 
 
Other good Selections 
 
 And where they may be found. 
 
 The Death Disk Mark Twain 
 
 Harper's Magazine, December, 1901. 
 Soldier of the Empire Thomas Nelson Page 
 
 Century, October, 1886. 
 The Promise Annie Hamilton Donnell 
 
 Harper's, May, 1906. 
 The Carriage Lamps Stephen Crane 
 
 Harper's, February, 1900. 
 Making an Orator Stephen Crane 
 
 Harper's, December, 1899. 
 Lynx Hunting Stephen Crane 
 
 Harper's, September, 1899. 
 A Batch of Bread and Pudding A. B. Ward 
 
 Harper's, May, 1891. 
 Last Island Lafcadio Heam 
 
 Harper's, April, 1888. 
 Rosamund Barrett Wendell 
 
 Scribner's, June, 1890. 
 Hieronymous Pop and the Baby Sherwood Bonner 
 
 Harper's, June, 1880. 
 The Perfect Tribute Mary R. S. Andrews 
 
 Scribner's, July, 1906. 
 A Call Grace McGowan Cook 
 
 Harper's, August, 1906. 
 Heart of Old Hickory Will Allen Dromgoole 
 
 Published by Estes & Lauriat, Boston. 
 The Recompense Annie Hamilton Donnell 
 
 Atlantic ^Monthly, April, 1905. 
 Hannah the Quakeress (poetry) . Ednah Proctor Clark 
 
 Harper's, November, 1898. 
 
 Silence Mary Wilkins Freeman 
 
 Harper's, July, 1893. 
 
/ 
 
 328 OTHER GOOD SELECTIONS. 
 
 Wee Willie Winkie Rudyard Kipling 
 
 "Indian Tales" 
 A Perjured Santa Glaus Myra Kelley 
 
 McClure's, January, 1907. 
 The Doll Alice McGowan 
 
 Harper's, January, 1906. 
 Unexpected Guests (monologue) Margaret Cameron 
 
 Harper's Bazar, October, 1902. 
 Mother's Daughter Juliet Wilbur Thompkins 
 
 Everybody's January, 1906. 
 Petticoat Push Rose Young 
 
 Harper's, June, 1906. 
 Healing of the Lepers Lew Wallace 
 
 Ben Hur, Book VIH, Chapters 3 and 4. 
 Mary Elizabeth Elizabeth Stuart Phelps 
 
 ''Fourteen to One" 
 
 Johnny Hall Muriel Campbell Dyar 
 
 Harper's, July, 1907.